


Constantly

by SaraHerbertWatson



Series: Hungerlock [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 75th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst and Humor, Asexual Sherlock, Asexual Sherlock Holmes/Heterosexual John Watson, District 12, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hunger Games, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Quarter Quell, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, friendships, sibling relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 64,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7727971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraHerbertWatson/pseuds/SaraHerbertWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been crowned winner of the Hunger Games and has returned home from the Arena, and many things have changed. He moved into the Victor's Village with his family, he now has a boyfriend (and it's Sherlock Holmes, amazingly), and he himself has changed drastically from the boy the Capitol threw into the Arena last summer. But as time goes on and John continues to fight his inner demons and nightmares of the Games, it becomes clear that trouble is coming to change their lives again: the Quarter Quell is soon, and the twist is something no one (except for maybe Mycroft, because of course) saw coming. Now John has to return to the Capitol as a mentor and watch as the new tributes enter the Arena, while something far more complicated is just waiting in the wings... There are a lot of secrets being kept, and soon they will all come out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PART ONE: The Ashes // Six Months Later

John Watson was surrounded by trees – in the Hunger Games Arena. He heard movement in the woods around him – other tributes, all ready to kill him – and he wanted to run, but something was holding him back – something important –

“John. Ground yourself,” he heard a voice behind him – Sherlock Holmes' voice – and John started speaking.

“My name is John Watson. I am eighteen years old. I am in –” he glanced around. Not the Arena, he realized – it never snowed in his Arena. “– the outskirts of District Twelve. And it’s –” he grabbed his boyfriend’s wrist and consulted his watch. “– eleven thirty-two.” He looked up at Sherlock. “We should get back.”

He let go of Sherlock’s wrist, but Sherlock took his hands in his before John could start walking back.

“Just a few more minutes,” he begged, pressing his lips to John’s, and John returned the kiss, feeling Sherlock’s hesitation. He was normally gentle with John, knowing that anything could trigger a panic attack of some sort. [Today, though, the kiss was more urgent than usual, John could tell – and he knew exactly why:](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gl-zPgzhCog)

Today, since John had won the most recent Hunger Games, he had to leave to go on a victory tour of the country they lived in, Panem, leaving Sherlock behind.

“I’ll only be gone for two weeks,” John reminded his boyfriend.

“That’s about fourteen days too many,” Sherlock muttered. “And right after my birthday, too – it’s ridiculous. Why is it always after my birthday?”

The Victory Tour always started the second week of January, just after Sherlock's birthday on the sixth. It had always been this way, and showed no sign of changing. Still, John wasn't the first person to leave Sherlock for the Victory Tour; Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft Holmes, had also won the Hunger Games almost nine years ago, meaning he had to go on the Tour, too. Since Mycroft was a mentor for the tributes in the Hunger Games, he was John’s mentor, and the mentors of the Hunger Games victor were required to come with their victor on the Tour. Just as he had six months ago, Sherlock would be temporarily without the two most important people in his life.

“I’ll call you every day, at least once,” John promised. “If there’s no phone on the train I’ll piss everyone off until they get me one.” At this, Sherlock smiled. “And you'll have Harry to keep you company while I'm gone.”

In fact, Harry, John’s sister three years his junior, had kept Sherlock company the last time John and Mycroft left District 12 together; when Mycroft mentored John while he was in the Hunger Games.

“Right,” Sherlock said, disappointed. He wasn't upset about Harry, though – they had actually gotten quite close while John was in the Games. He just didn't want to have to say goodbye to Sherlock, again – at least not this soon after John’s arrival home. But then again, would any amount of time be good enough for Sherlock?

John squeezed Sherlock's hand.

“Come on, Mycroft’s going to worry.”

“He always worries, you not showing up on time won’t stop him.”

“Alright, fine. _Mrs. Hudson_ will worry.”

“And what, we can’t be the ones to give her the hardest day of her entire life by showing up five minutes late?” Sherlock asked, yet they had begun the walk back anyway, meaning John had won.

“She’s just doing her job,” John said. “She probably doesn’t have any idea what she’s actually doing.”

“She knows that she’s helping send twenty-three kids to die _annually,_ wouldn’t that be enough to realize something wasn’t right?”

It was true – the Hunger Games was just a glorified battle to the death, and Mrs. Hudson, the woman who escorted two unlucky teenagers from District 12 to Panem’s Capitol, was just helping send those kids to their deaths. And this – the twenty-three deaths each year, the seventy-four years of Hunger Games – was all because of a rebellion against the Capitol that had occurred almost seventy-five years ago.

“When you’re taught that it’s the price we’re meant to pay, it becomes right,” John said quietly.

 _“We’ve_ been taught that it’s the price we’re meant to pay,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Okay, the fact that everyone in the Capitol is immune to the punishment might have something to do with it.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t ‘hm’ me,” John sighed. “Mrs. Hudson’s a nice lady. Mycroft likes her.”

“Only because he has to,” Sherlock said. “He has to like everyone there, you know that.”

“No, he doesn’t. He could secretly hate them,” John suggested. “He could just be putting on a –” he stopped speaking abruptly, as if someone had grabbed his throat and cut off his breathing. He still couldn’t say that word – not in that context.

“A performance,” Sherlock supplied.

“Yeah – a performance. A really good performance. One you can’t see through.”

“Like you do?” Sherlock asked as they approached the wire fence.

As they climbed through, John took a moment to think about it. Did he really like the people in the Capitol? He hated President Snow, that was for sure. There was Caesar Flickerman; he had helped John survive by helping him gain sponsors to help him in the Arena – no, John did that all by himself. Well, Sherlock declaring his love for John in front of the entire nation during John's interview with Caesar certainly helped him, but Caesar was nothing but a wall John was able to bounce himself off of, projecting himself in the direction of the audience and the Capitol’s sponsors. Then there was Mrs. Hudson – he did like her. She seemed to genuinely care about him. But then again, he was sure she made all District 12 tributes feel like that.

The only person he really liked was Cinna, he found – Cinna wasn’t like the regular Capitol citizens. He saw into the Hunger Games and knew it was wrong but joined in to try to help his tribute live.

Maybe Mycroft felt the same way.

“I suppose,” he finally said to Sherlock as they rejoined hands and continued walking. “I think Mycroft just understands that we’ve all got jobs to do, and we’re all just trying to do them.”

“Like mentoring? And going on the Victory Tour?” Sherlock asked.

“And surviving.”

Sherlock nodded. They walked in the middle of the road, like they always did. [Things had calmed down in the last six months](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yD4RR4RO4fE) – people didn’t stare at John anymore, and the paparazzi from the Capitol had left ages ago. He thought back to his first morning back in District Twelve – running these exact streets with Sherlock. When Mycroft found out, he was beyond upset – John was in no condition to be running, since he had lost part of his leg just days ago, and John’s prosthetic leg and Capitol-issued physical therapist made sure John knew that, as well. John still had bad days; days where he needed the cane to get around, but then he had good days, like this one.

“What do you think happens to the bad victors?” Sherlock asked quietly, looking straight ahead. “The ones who know the Capitol is bullshit and won’t let it control them?” he whispered as if someone was listening in on them.

“Mycroft hasn’t told me.” But he knew that Mycroft knew – from the way he looked at his little brother he knew. John had a theory, one he didn’t want to say out loud: they take everything from you until you break. After Mr. and Mrs. Holmes died (him in a mining accident, her from suicide), the only thing Mycroft had was Sherlock, and so he kept his toes in line to keep him safe. Christ, he tried to keep _Sherlock’s_ toes in line to keep him safe. And as the idea bounced around in his head, John realized that even the _threat_ of something bad happening if John didn’t do what the Capitol told him to would scare him into submission. “I don’t want to find out.”

* * *

Mrs. Hudson, Cinna, and John’s prep team were to meet John at his house. Sherlock and Harry, who had skipped school to see John off, were throwing quips back and forth and flipping each other off from across the room when Mrs. Hudson burst in through the door.

“VICTORY TOUR!” she sang, and Sherlock had already decided that he had had enough peppiness for one day.

“Augh, _no!”_ He cried, sliding himself downwards until he was laying on the couch. It was only when everyone looked at him that he realized he had spoken out loud.

“Don’t worry; you’re invited!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, not missing a beat.

“I’m what?” Sherlock asked, sitting up and looking at her.

“You’re coming on the tour with us! Everyone wants to see the Hunger Games’ favorite couple, after all!” she announced, and Sherlock looked at John.

“We’re breaking up,” he decided, but it took a few seconds of horrified staring for Mrs. Hudson and the prep team to get that he wasn’t serious.

“What about school?” Mrs. Watson asked. “Sherlock’s still a student –”

“I’ve already gotten all the classwork he is going to miss,” Mycroft assured her. “He’ll do it on the train between speeches.”

At this, Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother. He was a genius; he didn't _need_ schoolwork – it would just bore him.

Mrs. Hudson then approached John, hugging him and kissing both of his cheeks.

“Oh, it is so good to see you – What is that?” she asked, holding him at arm’s length.

“What is what?” John asked innocently.

“On your face.”

“Oh,” John rubbed the thin beard on his face with his hand, making that skritchy-scratchy sound that Sherlock hated. “I haven’t shaved in a few weeks.”

“Two months,” Sherlock corrected him. In fact, he had spent the last two months trying to convince John to remove it, doing anything from actually begging him to making fun of it in hopes that something would inspire John to shave. Even Harry got involved, acting afraid of it whenever her brother entered the room. At one point, John had replied to Sherlock's harassment by saying “I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes,” and Harry spouted a counter-slogan: “Please shave for Sherlock Holmes,” and started leaving tiny signs with said slogan written upon it in various places in their house – anywhere from on the ceiling above John’s bed, to in every single pocket John’s clothes possessed. Sherlock had found one slipped in between two books on John's bookshelf and took it for himself, as a souvenir of the battle.

“I don’t like it; it ages you,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Consider it shaved,” one of the members of John’s prep team promised.

“I dunno, Venia, we could do something with it –” the other woman in the prep team said, expensive hand on expensive chin.

“Octavia, no,” the first woman – Venia – said. “It’s going.”

The three kids exchanged looks, Sherlock smirking at John, Harry winking and sticking her tongue out at her brother, and John glaring at his boyfriend and his sister.

John then seemed to realize he was surrounded by citizens of the Capitol who had no idea what sort of feud had been going on between them over John's facial hair, for he stopped glaring at Sherlock and Harry and turned to his prep team and Mrs. Hudson.

“Um,” John said, clasping his hands together and using them to gesture around. “Mrs. Hudson, this is my mom, my dad, and my sister Harry.”

“Oh, aren’t you a _doll!?”_ Mrs. Hudson cried, approaching Harry and kissing both of her cheeks. She looked at John’s mom. “Surely, that can’t be what you’ve named her?”

“It’s Harriet,” John said.

“It’s _Harry,”_ Harry insisted.

“We’ve _got_ to do something with you, sometime,” Octavia said to Harry, looking her over, already making plans, then turned to John. “But we’re here for you, today.”

“We’ll fill you in on _everything_ ; you haven’t missed a thing though, don’t worry,” the only man in the team assured him, which sounded contradictory in Sherlock’s head. But then again, everything about the Capitol was contradictory in some way or another.

“I’m sure Sherlock’s been doing quite a lot of filling in –” Octavia began.

 _“Octavia!”_ Mrs. Hudson cried.

“Oh, _everyone’s_ been talking about it!” she looked at Sherlock and cupped her hand around her mouth, blocking John’s view as she worded to him: “How is he?”

“Uh –” Sherlock began. What the hell did any of that mean?

“Octaiva! Flavius! Venia! You said you wanted to fix my face!” John all but shouted, face bright red, turning to the prep team. “And the rest of me. Let’s go do that! Right now!”

“Yes!” the man – Flavius, Sherlock assumed, agreed.

“Bathroom’s right down this hall –” John’s father said, pointing down the hallway.

“Thanks dad, bye dad!” John was still practically shouting, basically pushing his prep team down the hall.

Sherlock, lost, looked at Mycroft, and Mycroft, trying to hide a smile, helped him out:

“Sex,” he mouthed.

 _Oh,_ that again.

“Do forgive Octavia; she doesn’t think before she speaks, sometimes,” Mrs. Hudson said, laughing uncomfortably, though Sherlock thought that knowing how to think before one spoke would’ve been in the job description. “Anyway, how are all of you? You must be _so_ proud of John.”

“Oh, we are,” Mrs. Watson said.

“More and more every day,” John’s father agreed.

It was about then Sherlock checked out.

Sex was never one of his interests – his body was a different thing entirely from the rest of him, especially in that aspect. He had always figured that if he was to ever be with someone, he would end up having sex with them at some point – that was the Thing To Do after all, wasn’t it? – but with John it was different. The Hunger Games haunted every part of John’s life, even that part. If sex was a thing they did in the first place, John would never be in the mood, to put it simply. There had been one time when they were kissing more passionately than usual, and their bodies reacted to the stimuli as bodies do, however. Sherlock had expected John to suggest they try it, and he, knowing it was the Thing People Did, was ready to agree, but John didn’t ask. He knew that John was a sexual person, though – he knew of some things John and a girl Sherlock forgot the name of had done the summer before last – so he only assumed the Games had done something to him on a mental level, making sex unattractive to him, now.

“How’s the talent search going?” he heard Cinna ask Mycroft, bringing Sherlock back to the present.

The talent search had not been going well. The only thing John was good at was what he was good at all along: he excelled in medical care. In fact, he had gotten a job working to become a doctor for the District. There were only two doctors in District 12, a husband-and-wife team, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe. Mrs. Monroe saw to the women and children, and Mr. Monroe saw to the men. They spent their free time training their children, Susanna and Thomas Jr., in their ways, so when they eventually passed, the practice would be passed over to them, making it a brother-sister team. But about month after John returned from the Games, the Monroe’s went to John and offered to mentor him, and John jumped at the opportunity. And so, while Sherlock and Harry were at school, he spent the day at the Monroe’s, working alongside Mr. Monroe, Mrs. Monroe, and Thomas Jr. (Susanna was in Sherlock's class, thus still going to school, whilst Thomas Jr. was two years older than John), and Sherlock and Harry hung out together after school until John was done for the day.

But healing wounds wasn’t a talent the Capitol could show off. Every victor of the Hunger Games had a specific talent – some useless thing to do since they didn’t need to work. Mycroft’s talent was playing the piano (in fact, a piano had been installed into the Holmes’ mansion a few months after Mycroft returned from the Games), but he didn’t do it much, anymore.

“He’s taking to the clarinet, actually,” Mycroft replied.

“Barely,” Sherlock muttered. It seemed like everything John did to find his talent was just so uncharacteristic, but this was probably one of the most un-John things John was doing.

“Cinna, isn’t Ms. Price and Mary Morstan’s prep team here to look after Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, obviously anxious to get rid of him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Dear god, not _him,_ too.

“Yes, they wanted a brief word with Mary’s family, but they should be at your house, right now,” Cinna replied.

Sherlock turned around and glared at Mycroft, and Mycroft shrugged.

“You better get used to it,” he said, pursing his lips together in a smile, “You’re basically a victor now.”

* * *

After John was decked out in winter attire, he was led outside to meet with Sherlock in front of all of the cameras. He had a black coat on over his cardigan and had what he felt was one of the ugliest hats in the world upon his head – [a square one that covered his ears.](http://www.fullerverse.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/hannibal-hat.jpg) Sherlock, on the other hand, looked gorgeous. He was in a tall black coat with the collar up to protect the back of his neck from the cold, despite the fact that coat was undone, revealing a blue scarf and a black blazer under it.

If it wasn’t for the cameras watching him, John’s mind would’ve probably gone elsewhere, for the first time in months. The two boys met between their houses, and Sherlock immediately took John’s face in his gloved hands and kissed him deeply, and John fought to keep his blood from rushing to embarrassing places.

When they let go, Sherlock gestured to his coat.

“I’m liking this,” he decided.

“Me too,” John breathed.

“I’m definitely going to see if they’ll let me keep it,” he said, turning to the cameras and smiling brightly.

“Of course they will,” John assured him, doing the same and waving at the audience that was undoubtedly watching them.

As the team was driven (in one of the Capitol’s cars) to the train station, Sherlock held onto John’s gloved hand, looking out the window.

“Who bribed you, and with what?” John asked. There was no way Sherlock was this happy to be trapped in a train with Mrs. Hudson, his brother, two babbling prep teams, and twenty different Peacekeepers for two weeks.

“To be honest, I think it’s the coat,” Sherlock said, looking at him.

“No, seriously.”

“Seriously?” Sherlock looked out the window again. “I think you’re right. We all have jobs to do, and mine is to not be myself when I have a camera on me. Make your win seem worth it, you know?”

“You already do that – it doesn’t matter if you’re yourself or not,” John informed him, and Sherlock nodded, a small smile on his face.


	2. Poker Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently the problem with making a first chapter and then just putting notes in it and then replacing it with a REAL chapter is that nobody gets told because it counts as an edit. Even though it's NOT. So here's Chapter Two as well so people actually get told about Constantly being a thing.

As soon as they got onto the train, Sherlock’s façade went back down, realizing that he would be trapped on a train with the peppiest person in all of Panem, his older brother, six of the most annoying prep team members he’s ever met, and some unknown amount of Peacekeepers who he’d _love_ to disobey.

Much to his surprise, so did Mycroft’s by dinner time.

“It’s five o’clock,” Mycroft announced when Sherlock and John entered the car for dinner. Per usual, his brother was the first one there. “We’ve been here for _at_ _least_ a week now and it’s only five o’clock,” he said as the boys sat down.

Sherlock and John glanced at each other. This was new – Mycroft rarely complained about anything, unless it was related to Sherlock.

“Aw, don’t be that way, Mycroft!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, entering the car (and the conversation) and sitting down. “We’ve won the Hunger Games; we’re on the Victory Tour! We’re supposed to be happy – _I’m_ happy, _John’s_ happy, _Sherlock’s_ happy, _Cinna’s_ happy –” she said, gesturing at each person, Cinna too as he entered the car and sat down.

“Am I happy, too?” Mycroft asked. “I haven’t checked.”

“You can hang out with me and Sherlock –” John began before Sherlock shot him a dirty look.

“No he can’t,” he insisted.

“You’ve got to let the lovers have their alone time, Mycroft,” Mrs. Hudson said, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Sherlock had no idea what was keeping him from telling her off, but he did look at Mycroft to see him bent over his food, smirking to himself.

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft said with a grin.

* * *

After dinner, Mycroft found his way to John’s room, where Sherlock was doing his homework, and John was listening to Sherlock complain about the differences between the _right_ answers and the answers his teachers _wanted_. He knocked gently on the door, and John answered.

“I am in agony,” Mycroft said in lieu of an actual greeting. “Can I come in?”

“No!” Sherlock protested from his place John’s bed, but John let him in despite that. “You’re on this ride all the time – why are _you_ bored?” he asked.

“For your information, I’m normally given paperwork to fill out about my tributes that I complete on the train. I don’t _do_ Victory Tours – I’ve never _done_ this; I had no idea I wouldn’t have any paperwork.”

“I’m sure you can go find yourself a cake to devour,” Sherlock said. “Or try something new; like working out. I’m sure you could get a treadmill in here; they got _you_ in here, after all.”

“Very funny, little brother, but I thought I would do what I’ve been taught to do best and mentor John.”

“Mentor me how?” John asked, taking a step away from Mycroft. Mycroft wasn’t his mentor, anymore – he was his own mentor, now. Unless –

“Sorry – wrong choice of words. I simply wanted to make sure you knew what you’re to do during the Victory Tour.”

John relaxed, and thought about what he knew.

“I know that Mrs. Hudson’s supposed to give me cards I’m to read. Other than that...I dunno, be myself? Do what I’ve always done?”

“What about him?” Mycroft asked, glancing at Sherlock. “You have to play off of each other, now.”

“That’ll be simple enough to do,” Sherlock said. “We’ve been playing off each other for years – that's how being friends works, right?”

“Yes, but the Capitol has created an image of you, brother mine. You have to keep that image alive.”

“Alright, so John will be himself and I won’t, we get it.”

Mycroft sighed.

[“What I’m trying to get at is there have been some...” he looked around the room, searching for the words. John knew where this was going – the one place he didn’t really want the conversation going that night. “...extremely false rumors that have been going around –”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Jo25SL56A)

[“How do _you_ know they’re false?” Sherlock asked.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Jo25SL56A)

[“Because I know _you,_ ” Mycroft replied. “Anyway, we all got a taste of those rumors thanks to Octavia back at the Watson’s home. Do either of you have any idea as to what to do about these rumors?”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Jo25SL56A)

[This was the first time they were discussing it – about anything having to do with it.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Jo25SL56A)

[“Well, we exactly can’t prove them right or wrong, so...” John began.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Jo25SL56A)

[“Just...let them think what they want to think?” Sherlock looked to John for confirmation, and John nodded, and together they looked back at Mycroft.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Jo25SL56A)

[“You’re going to have to learn a better poker face, then – both of you,” Mycroft said. “As soon as sex is mentioned John’s face goes as red as a tomato while Sherlock looks positively terrified –”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Jo25SL56A)

[“Sex doesn’t _scare_ me,” Sherlock blurted out.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Jo25SL56A)

[“Well it certainly confuses you; the moment it’s mentioned you’re lost.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Jo25SL56A)

“If you’ve come to insult me you can leave; John and I can figure out what to do just fine without you –”

“Boys,” John said, and they both looked at him. “Not here. Mrs. Hudson’s right – we’re on the Victory Tour. I really don’t want to hear the two of you bickering the entire trip; I don’t _need_ it, either. We’ll make better straight faces if anyone mentions it from now on. Is there anything else?”

Mycroft shrugged.

“Nothing I can think of. We’re stopping at District Eleven tomorrow; you’ll be meeting the families of –”

“Beth Davenport and Andrew West,” John muttered. He would never forget the names – he fell asleep to his mind counting each one off every night:

_Beth Davenport, District 11._

_Andrew West, District 11._

_Jennifer Wilson, District 3._

_Irene Adler, District 1._

_Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson, District 10._

_Greg Lestrade, District 5._

_Victor Trevor, District 9 –_

“John,” Sherlock pulled him back.

He looked back at Mycroft, and for a moment Mycroft looked concerned.

“You’ll be seeing their families tomorrow. Can you handle that?” he asked slowly, his words deliberate.

“Yes.”

But John didn’t know, for sure. Even seeing Mary Morstan’s parents in District 12 now, six months later, made John feel like he was going to vomit on the spot, and he knew they forgave him. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like facing the families who resented him; who would never forgive him.

But he didn’t kill Beth and Andrew. The real resentment would start the day after next, in District 10, when John met Philip Anderson’s parents. And the day after that, John had to face Victor Trevor’s father.

“John?” Mycroft asked, noticing that they had lost him again.

“I need to shower. Now. Everyone get out, please.”

“John –?” Sherlock started.

“Please!” John repeated, avoiding their eyes.

It took a moment for the Holmes brothers to start moving. John sat still as they both left and closed the door behind them.

As much as he wanted the water to be so hot it boiled his skin, he knew the steam left behind would bring him back to even more panic-inducing times. Instead, he turned the cold water on, and sat in the stream of water until his body was numb.

He was wrong – Mrs. Hudson was wrong. Victory Tour or not, John was not happy. John wanted the numbness to last all throughout the tour – so he wouldn’t have to feel a thing.

For a moment, he thought back to the Morphling he was provided with when he first left the Arena – _that_ would certainly numb him up quite well –

No. No Morphling. The Capitol had been insistent that he bring some home with him when he left, so he hid it somewhere Sherlock would never think to look, and if he did think to look there, he’d be too embarrassed to do so: in the back of John’s underwear drawer. This was the first time John had thought of the Morphling since hiding it, and he quickly banished the thought – there was no way he was turning to drugs, even if Sherlock hadn’t formed an addiction years ago. The cold water would have to do.

* * *

Sherlock knocked on John’s door. He had stayed in his room for hours – everyone apart from a few Peacekeepers and Avoxes on duty were probably asleep.

But Sherlock couldn’t sleep – not with knowing for a fact that John had never slept alone since the Games. They had tried to sleep by themselves once, when they realized the Victory Tour meant that they would be without each other for two weeks, and Sherlock stayed up, watching John’s bedroom window from his own, until John showed up at his front door at three in the morning. “I’ll probably be able to do it once I know I just can’t walk next door and find you,” John muttered once they got to Sherlock’s room, and promptly fell asleep. As soon as they knew that Sherlock would be going on the Tour with John, plans for John sleeping by himself were obliterated, until now.

Now Sherlock didn’t know what to do.

There was no answer, and so Sherlock knocked again. The door was unlocked, but he didn’t dare burst in.

“Come in,” John’s voice said from within, and Sherlock slowly opened the door. John was curled up in bed, facing away from him.

Now that Mycroft had broken the barrier between them and the subject, Sherlock wanted to ask – wanted to know – why hadn’t they had sex, yet? That’s What People Did, and they were people.

But he didn’t ask. Instead, he laid in bed beside John, facing him, but not touching.

“I’ll be there, tomorrow,” he told him.

“I know,” John replied.

“If anyone says anything to you I’ll tell them their life story and then tell them to leave you alone before I reveal the _real_ secrets,” he promised, and he heard the exhale of breath that was John’s laugh.

“Thanks.”

Sherlock was sure that John was losing himself again. He tried to pull him back:

“What are you thinking about, John?”

Silence. Then:

“My poker face.”

* * *

The next morning, John watched as they approached District 11, trying to memorize the words on the card Mrs. Hudson gave him. The District supplied all of Panem’s crops, so it made sense the place looked like a gigantic farmland. Though it was winter, it did not snow here like it did in District Twelve. The fields of crops went on as far as John’s eyes could see – fields and fields of food and plants and trees, and people working to harvest that food.

“It’s so much,” he muttered to himself.

“Obviously – it has to feed all of Panem,” Sherlock said, appearing beside him, causing him to jump. “Sorry; I thought you heard me come in. How do I look?”

John glanced at him. They were in identical suits, but their colors were switched between the two, like how it was when they reunited in the Capitol. They looked like they were meant to be, standing next to each other; like two pieces of a puzzle. If they were to part at any time, their suits would seem weird and pointless.

“You look great,” John replied.

“I think we look stupid,” he muttered, and a smile tugged at John’s lips. So he saw it, too. “Do you remember when we were in school, and they told us this was the largest District?”

“Never thought I’d see it for myself.”

“We never thought we’d do any of the things we did to get us here,” Sherlock mumbled.

“It all seems so far away,” John said distantly, after a moment.

“What does?”

“Childhood,” John whispered, his eyes watering. He tried to keep the tears from falling down his cheeks and smudging the make up the prep team applied. “I remember when nothing ever happened to me. I want to go back there.”

“Maybe we can, one day,” Sherlock said, holding John’s hand.

“But the mentoring –”

“You’ll come back once a year for mentoring. Filling out paperwork, going through the motions. [Then, after that, we’ll take a vacation, just you and me. Anywhere you want to go.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSbf5z7__eI)

[“That’s just it, Sherlock. Everywhere I go reminds me of that place,” John said quietly.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSbf5z7__eI)

[Sherlock turned, holding John’s other hand. They faced each other, looking into each other’s eyes.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSbf5z7__eI)

[“Then we’ll find a place that doesn’t.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSbf5z7__eI)

Sherlock leaned in, and his lips almost touched John’s before the door opened.

“We’ll be stopping any moment, boys – Oh!” Mrs. Hudson cried, covering her mouth with both of her hands. Sherlock and John jumped away from each other in the same moment, startled by the fact that she had caught them during the intimate moment. After a second, she lowered her hands, a grin replacing her surprised expression. “Sorry for interrupting, but there will be plenty of time for that later! John’s got a speech to make!”

Right, the speech. John glanced down at his index card again, knowing that his mind was too much of a mess to remember any of it.

* * *

When Mrs. Hudson left, Sherlock looked down at John, and John looked away, back out the window, and Sherlock knew that the moment was gone. That’s all they were, really – just moments floating through time, rising and falling as quickly as a page in a book turned. There were moments where they were in some form of love, and they talked openly and shared their feelings and thoughts and secrets and didn’t mind being an item for the Capitol, because they were _together_ , and that’s all that mattered. Then there were moments like these – where even though they were physically touching they were thousands of miles apart.

Most of the time, Sherlock tried to bring John back – telling him to ground himself; making sure John knew where he really was. But then there were times – times like these, where Sherlock let John go on his journey, remembering whatever he had remembered. Because remembering made it real, made John sure that it had absolutely happened, and Sherlock knew that. And maybe someday, John would find that he didn’t need to remember, and maybe that day would happen before his memories threatened to devour him completely. Sherlock would stay with him though, no matter what. No matter how lost John got, Sherlock would be right at his side.

The train stopped, and Mycroft opened the door again, and just like that the world was moving again.

Sherlock and John looked up at him, and all Mycroft had to do was nod for them to understand – it was time.

They got off the train, all together, and were led by Peacekeepers to District 11’s city hall. It was like a carbon copy of District Twelve, and every other District before them, probably. All the Districts had a station, had a city hall, had a place to gather, had children who died, children who were reaped, children who would never be the same again –

Inside the building, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson introduced John to District 11’s mayor, and the victors who had won before – who would be standing on the stage with John, reminding the District that it just wasn’t their year – that they had winners, too. But John was the special one, this year – _he_ was the one the Capitol paid attention to and paraded around Panem like a banner.

There were three victors in all; one more than District 12 – the lowest of the low, even _with_ John. Except now, they were back to two; the victor of the Eighth Hunger Games would’ve been eighty-four this year, according to the other two victors – older men, ones that weren't far behind their fellow victor; one with a burn scar covering the side of his face, and one with a glass eye. The Games had taken something from every single one of them, John thought as he shook hands with each of them, and yet they all stood on the same stage. And this time next year, John would join Mycroft on _their_ stage, with whoever was “fortunate” enough to win the Games this coming year. _Look at us,_ he’d be saying to the new victor. _Is this worth it? It better have been._

The men talked to Mycroft as if they were old friends – they probably were, considering they visited every year. The older man – the man with the glass eye, whose name John had forgotten already – smiled down at Sherlock as he took John’s hand.

“This must be little Sherlock –” the man said, and reached out to shake Sherlock’s unoccupied hand. “Mycroft’s told us all so much about you.”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, setting his jaw, but making no further comment as Mycroft immediately turned to the Mayor and thanked him for the hospitality.

Very shortly after their arrival, the Mayor and District 11’s victors were called out to introduce John, and a microphone was clipped to his shirt by Mrs. Hudson.

“Remember the three S’s –” she began in a whisper, picking John’s shoulders of non-existent lint, and John found himself grinning at her before she could continue. She looked at him, and returned the smile. “– Perfect.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Sherlock promised. Normally, on one side of the doors to the Justice Building stood the past victors from the home District, and on the other stood the past victors (or victor) from the visiting District, but the Capitol had made an exception for Sherlock.

It was then he was introduced. The Peacekeepers standing on either side of the double doors opened them for him. He walked out of the doors and onto the stage, facing all of District 11, including – singled out on special platforms – the families of Beth Davenport and Andrew West.

There was something no one knew about being a victor until they themselves were a victor – something no one saw in the broadcasts: the entire ceremony was scripted. Everyone knew the victors had a card to read from, but there was never any indication that the Capitol was also putting words into the mouths of every District's mayor.

The mayor of District 11 read his words, and then John read his. For some reason, it felt as if this was only a practice run for him, and, with a realization that caused him to stumble over his words, he knew why: Beth and Andrew were both Bloodbath deaths. Neither of them made it to the final six, or even the final twelve; they narrowly made it into the final twenty. He did not know these tributes; John and Beth didn’t even look at each other, and he had only heard Andrew speak three words while sitting next to him on the ride to the Arena, and they weren’t even spoken to John directly.

Tomorrow would be more difficult – much more difficult – because he _had_ known Sally and Philip. And, since he had allied himself with them, he had to say a few words to honor them. Yes, John thought as he was presented with a bouquet of flowers and a plaque for his victory, tomorrow was going to be significantly harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO CHAPTER THREE'S RELEASE IS AN ENIGMA IT'LL HAPPEN WHEN IT HAPPENS I GUESS. Maybe when I'm done editing Part Three...


	3. The Weight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINISHED EDITING PART THREE!!! So here you are: Chapter Three!

After the dinner that John couldn’t have cared less about, he shut himself in his room as the train pulled away, and tried to write something decent for Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson:

_To the families of Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson,_

Well, that was a good start, John thought. Maybe he could get a middle and an ending written by the time it was the One-Hundredth Annual Hunger Games. And yet, that simple half-of-a-sentence was novels longer than anything he had said aloud about them in the past six months – more than he had said aloud about anyone in that Arena. His mind, though – he could fill oceans with what he thought about every single person who had been in there with him.

How could he ever look into the faces of Philip’s family and tell them that Philip died an honorable death when _John_ was the one who killed him? How could he ever look into the faces of Sally’s and say the same, when her final words had been spent screaming insults in John’s face?

And suddenly, he was writing what he felt on the page: _I cannot be forgiven,_ when there was a knock on the door.

He crumpled up the paper and turned around as Mycroft opened the door.

“Sherlock came to the conclusion that you hadn’t written your more...personal speeches, yet,” he said, and John looked down at the ball of paper in his hands.

“My god,” he whispered in false amazement, looking up at Mycroft. “He’s _right.”_

“You're beginning to sound like my brother,” Mycroft said, and then gestured to the paper in John’s hands with his umbrella. “May I see what you’ve got?” he asked, and John held it closer to him, defensive. “Or, you may read it...or not.”

John opened the paper, not bothering to smooth it out, and read the only part he had written that didn’t make him sound like he was losing it:

“‘ _To the families of Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson,’_ and that’s it,” John said, crumpling the paper back up so small and tight he could hold it in a single balled fist.

“That’s a great start,” Mycroft said, sitting down at the foot of John’s bed. “If I may make a few suggestions –”

“Please,” John insisted, picking up his pencil and poising it to write on a fresh sheet of paper.

“Think of some traits they both carried, and write about that. They made it to the final twelve, didn’t they?” he asked John, and he nodded as he wrote down what Mycroft was saying. “Tell their families how brave they were for making it there.”

“What do I say to Philip’s family? I killed him.”

“Thank them,” Mycroft said.

John was confused.

“For what?”

“For Philip. Thank the Donovan’s for Sally. Thank them for the opportunity to meet them. They all know you were in the fog – they all know you didn’t have a choice –”

“But I stole their children,” John whispered. “And I lived.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed in, held his breath, and then looked down at his umbrella.

“We should not be forced to carry this weight,” he mumbled, and then looked at John, continuing on as if he hadn’t spoken. “When I was on my Victory Tour, the ‘Ice Man’ returned,” he revealed, swaying his head slightly to the side as he recited his title, as if mocking it. He inhaled again, and spoke as he breathed out, holding his breath in each pause that he made: “Become. A stone. John. It’s the only way I’ve found to survive this life.”

And it all made sense, somehow, just like that – just like it had when Jim Moriarty revealed he was from the Capitol, and not from District 1 like he had everyone believe.

“You’re still the Ice Man,” John guessed. “You haven’t stopped.”

Mycroft smiled at him – a sad, tired smile.

“Don’t tell Sherlock.”

* * *

John finally exited his room in the early hours of the morning – when most people considered it to still be nighttime. Sherlock was still up, naturally, but Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed hours ago. When he emerged into the main car, Sherlock, who was watching the Avoxes clean, looked up at him.

“You’re done,” he guessed, and John shrugged.

“As done as I’ll ever be,” he said. “Wrote something for everyone.” He fidgeted – a nervous tic John had – crossing his arms, then deciding that wasn’t what he wanted to do and putting his hands on his hips. Finally he looked out the window, but not seeing anything due to how dark it was. “All of my alliances,” he said, trying to speak casually, but Sherlock could tell he was carefully planning every word.

Sherlock found himself nodding. “That’s good. Did Mycroft come in and help you? I told him to come in and help you.”

John crossed his arms, still avoiding Sherlock’s eyes.

“Yeah, he did; he left a little while ago –”

“I know that,” Sherlock informed him; Mycroft had come out to say goodnight to Sherlock hours ago.

“Right, of course you did.” There was a silence as Sherlock stared at John, and John looked everywhere except for at Sherlock. “Thank you,” he said finally. “For telling him to come see me. I...couldn’t have done it without him.”

John was now watching a redheaded Avox clean the dining room table – someone he had recognized from the train ride to the Capitol the last time he had made the trip there. Sherlock returned his attention to them – to who he should’ve been.

“You’re scared,” he told John, without looking at him.

There was silence, and Sherlock was considering turning back and making sure John was alright, but then he finally spoke.

“Yeah.”

Sherlock looked at his boyfriend, and tried to be encouraging. “You’ve only got eleven more to go,” he said, and John looked back at him. “That’s one less than you had this time yesterday. So, that’s one way to think of it.”

“Yeah,” John said, going back to looking out the window for a moment, only seeing his reflection. “Let’s...go to bed.”

As they walked to their room, Sherlock noticed it was a bad day for John’s left leg – Sherlock could tell by the severity of his limp. Normally, John would’ve taken his cane if he wanted to walk on days like this, but Sherlock knew his lack of it had less to do with not needing it, and more to do with trying to look as strong as he could.

They did not speak until they were getting ready for bed – when John was already finished and Sherlock was brushing his teeth:

“Did you mean it?” Sherlock turned around to find John sitting on the bed, looking up at Sherlock as he took off his prosthetic (a skill he had perfected over the past six months). “What you said this morning?”

“Remind me: what did I say?” Sherlock asked around a mouthful of toothpaste, looking back in the mirror. “I say a lot of things, you know.”

“That...” John eased off his prosthetic, and Sherlock only glanced back it for a moment – it was still a sight to see him without it, but Sherlock never stared in a way that John would notice. “...That... Do you really think there’s a place that doesn’t remind me of – of everything?” he asked.

“Yes, somewhere,” Sherlock replied, and rinsed his mouth and spat out the water. “This can’t be the only place there is – even if everywhere else is like the outskirts, there’s got to be _something_.”

“And you’ll find it?” John asked as Sherlock exited the bathroom and turned the bedroom’s light off as he passed the switch.

“We’ll find it,” Sherlock corrected him as he sat on the bed.

“And we’ll go there?” John asked, and Sherlock put his hand on John’s shoulder.

“And we’ll go there,” he promised. Sensing this was a good moment, he kissed John, and John leaned his forehead against his, signifying that it was.

“We’ll get arrested,” John whispered, and though it was probably a legitimate concern, Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle. John smiled, too; one of his real smiles that only Sherlock ever saw anymore. “Like, _so_ arrested,” he said, beginning to chuckle, too.

“When have we ever worried about that, really?” Sherlock asked, and John laughed a little louder, even though he probably could give him the last time he worried about that down to the exact second. “I mean, your best friend actively tries to piss off the Capitol and break as many rules as possible as an alternative for getting high – that’s me, by the way; hello –” he said, but was cut off by John’s kiss.

“Hello,” John whispered when they finally came up for air.

“Hi,” Sherlock replied, then continued his train of thought. “If they end up catching us I’ll make sure they handcuff us together. That’ll get them talking, I’m sure –” John threw his head back in laughter, something Sherlock hadn’t seen him do in a long time.

“Congratulations; you got me to forget that we were on this fucking train for more than two seconds,” John said, still smiling.

“I think that’s really why they took me with you,” Sherlock mused. “Otherwise they wouldn’t get you to sleep at night.”

John smirked and rolled his eyes.

“They think we’re not getting any sleep, anyway,” he said, as if it was the most preposterous thing he had ever heard. But – Sherlock could tell, even in the dark, only seeing John’s face by the light of the moon outside – the kisses had sparked the beginning of a response to the stimulation elsewhere.

Somewhat uncomfortable – not because of John’s mishap but because of not wanting to discuss the subject – Sherlock backed off, disguising it as simply lying on his side of the bed.

“Stupid,” he muttered. “As if that’s all there is.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, lying back as well, not touching Sherlock. “They’re all stupid; this whole thing is stupid.” After a moment, he rolled on his side to look at him. “So when we find this place...we’re going to have to make aliases for ourselves...”

“Yes, that’s right. Let’s see...” Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “I’ll be...Sherrinford Hope,” he decided, and John laughed again – Sherlock was getting good at doing that.

“Will you? And who will I be, Mister Sherrinford Hope?”

“...Ormond Sacker,” Sherlock decided, which caused another burst of laughter from John, that faded into a yawn – his tiredness was finally taking him.

“No,” he protested, all the same.

“Too late. You asked for a name; I gave you one.”

“I don’t want that one –”

“Then pick your own name, next time,” Sherlock said, and John yawned again.

“Tell me about us,” he said upon ending the yawn.

“Hm?”

[“Tell me about the adventures of Sherrinford Hope and Ormond Sacker in the land we will find,” John said, his eyes fighting to stay open.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=moMVWe4Ok6w)

[And so, Sherlock turned his brilliant mind to the task of thinking up a story:](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=moMVWe4Ok6w)

[“Okay, well...Ormond is a doctor – the best doctor anyone has ever seen. A real miracle worker, you could say. They’ll tell them all Ormond lost his leg in a war, and that he doesn’t like to talk about it so no one will ask. And Sherrinford...Sherrinford solves crimes. Not stupid mysteries in District Twelve like ‘oh I wonder who dropped this coin on the ground’ or figuring out which of the Peacekeepers have broken the most of the rules that they’re supposed to be enforcing. Real crimes – important crimes. And you – Ormond – will help, of course. He’d take it up as his main profession, but he wants to help heal people, too, so he only solves crimes with Sherrinford part of the time and work in the doctor’s office the other part. But it won’t be just the two of them against the world – not anymore. Because everyone there will be brilliant, like them – like us. And even if they’re not that’s alright, because they’re probably loads better than the people here. And they’ll like us – I mean, they’ll like me; everyone already likes you, I have no doubt you’ll win their affection there, too. And...” he looked at John. “...someday the nightmares will stop. Because you won’t be reminded of here at all – the place we’ll go will be nothing like where we are now. And everyone will stop asking us about our private lives because we’ll be just regular people, like them – we’ll have privacy again. And we’ll get married when we’re good and ready and not when the Capitol wants us to – because they _will_ tell us to, inevitably – and we’ll be happy.” He whispered the words again as he too began to drift away, as if saying it again would make it the truth: “We’ll be happy.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=moMVWe4Ok6w)

* * *

Any happiness John felt the night before was gone by the time he awoke the next day. He looked out the window and noticed that it was the crack of dawn – how long had he slept? Three hours, at the most?

Careful not to wake up Sherlock, he maneuvered himself into a sitting position and put on his prosthetic – an act that was now becoming as simple and automatic as breathing, and he hated himself for it. He felt like this was something he wouldn’t be able to get used to, like he wouldn’t forget what it was like to live with both legs intact, but he was, and surprisingly fast.

He approached the desk in his room, where five envelopes lay, with John’s messy scrawl on the front of each of them:

_Greg Lestrade, 6_

_Molly Hooper, 8_

_Victor Trevor, 9_

_Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson, 10_

_Mary Morstan, 12_

He had wanted to write two separate speeches for Sally and Philip, but Mycroft had advised him against it. Sally and Philip had been paired off together, even in death, with one trying to avenge the other; they’d want to be paired off now, too, surely. Because that’s how people were – grouped, even in death. Sally and Philip, Greg included now and again, always in John’s mind. John and Mary; John and Harry. Sherlock and Mycroft. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and Cinna. John and Moriarty –

John shook his head and looked at who he was paired up with now, still asleep in his bed: Sherlock Holmes.

 _“You’re a freak, and so is your freak-ass_ boyfriend _– And you’re_ never _going home – over my dead body –”_

John shook his head again. He had. He had made it home, directly over Sally Donovan’s body. And God did he hate himself for it.

 _I did what I had to_ , he tried to think, but in his head that just made him sound like a Career – heartless, as if no one in that Arena mattered.

 _“People die all the time, Johnny boy; that’s what people_ do _,”_ a voice in his head – Moriarty’s voice – reminded him. He didn’t tell anyone that Moriarty paid him daily visits in his mind – mostly repeating things he had said during the finale, but other times just reminding him that he’s _earned_ this – this feeling of helplessness.

_“Staying alive... It’s so boring, isn’t it? Just...staying...”_

No, it wasn’t boring. Staying alive was hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four will happen when I've edited all I've written of Part Four!


	4. The Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINISHED EDITING WHAT I'VE GOT OF PART FOUR!! And I'm literally up and on my computer at 8 am just to post this before work. Now I've got to finish WRITING part four, and I'm thinking I'm just going to post chapters here as I finish writing each chapter until Part Four is done, then edit that bit, post a chapter when I'm done with that, AND THEN we'll get a happy, predictable post schedule going with whatever chapters of Constantly are left. :) Sound good? Cool. Love u all <3

Surprisingly, Mycroft’s advice worked, as long as “become a stone” meant checking out for a few minutes, thinking about absolutely nothing, and just reading what was on the cards and papers as if they were simple history books – as if the words written on the page were not stringed together in a way that held any meaning. John hated himself for becoming the stone – for taking himself out of his own mind so he wouldn’t start crying (or worse) at the microphone, but with the way Sherlock and Mycroft smiled at him it seemed his mental trip went unnoticed. He never once looked up from the page, never once looking at Sally’s little sister, or Philip’s little brother. He still hoped with all of his might that they would never have to follow in their sibling’s footsteps – maybe they could live the lives Sally and Philip never had the chance to – the lives John took away from them both.

The following day was the Tour’s stop in District Nine. John may have dozed for about an hour in all, and when he realized there was no more point in trying to sleep, he got up and discovered his hands were trembling with nerves. Sherlock noticed that immediately.

“Ground yourself, John. You’re okay,” he said, holding John’s shaking hands in his, even as John shook his head. “Yes, you are. Come on, ground yourself.”

John leaned into Sherlock, resting his forehead on his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“My name is John Watson. I am eighteen years old. I am on this train, on my way to District Nine. It’s five...” he trailed off, unsure.

“Fifty-nine,” Sherlock supplied, and John repeated it.

“...Fifty-nine in the morning.” He looked up. “That means –”

And, as if on cue, Mrs. Hudson burst through the bedroom door, and the world was not theirs anymore.

* * *

Sherlock refused to leave John’s side that morning. John probably thought it was unnecessary, but Sherlock didn’t care. It seemed to help, anyway, being able to see Sherlock out of his peripheral at all times. And, of course, it kept Sherlock a bit calmer, as well. There was no painfully agonizing moments of waiting for John to get out of prep, wondering what was taking so long or what they were talking about (he still didn’t completely trust Octavia after the “fill in” mishap Sherlock still didn’t completely understand back at District Twelve). No one seemed too put off by the idea, either, which made Sherlock feel loads better about making the request in the first place. Cinna and Portia talked while all six members of both pep teams talked – there was just a lot of talking, but John seemed to be okay with that, today. Perhaps it distracted him from what he had to do.

Two things stayed by John’s side throughout the morning: Sherlock, and an envelope marked _Victor Trevor, 9_. That was the cause for most of John’s anxiety, and Sherlock was fully aware of that fact. Victor Trevor had been John’s first kill, and not only that but the death that had affected John the most out of all of them. Sherlock knew John hated himself for killing anyone in that Arena, but he hated himself for killing Victor the very most. And now, John had to face Victor’s family and friends and talk about how happy he was that he survived.

They walked hand-in-hand to District 9’s Justice Building, and Sherlock could feel himself dreading the moment he would have to leave John’s side – it creeping into his heart. Sure, when John would be making his speech Sherlock would be a mere ten feet from him, but he wished to be _there_ with him – with no distance or walls that John put up between them.

“How are you –” Sherlock began, but John shook his head.

“Don’t ask me that.”

There were three previous victors from District Nine to meet them – five in all, but two of them had passed. One was in his early forties, with a few missing fingers and nightmares that still haunted him every night; the second one was in her late twenties, her hair cropped short since her waist-long hair almost cost the woman her life in her Arena; the third one, though, was only a year older than John – last year’s winner of the Games, Sherlock realized moments before Mycroft introduced them.

“John, this is Louise Neal; the victor of last year’s Games,” he said, placing his hand on the shoulder of the girl with the dark, jaw-line length curly hair, an eyebrow piercing, and tattooed freckles just under her eyes. “Louise, this is John Watson,” he went on, as she put out her hand, flashing a smile at him.

“Hi, John,” she said as John shook her hand.

“I remember you,” he muttered in lieu of a response, but then corrected himself. “Sorry – hi.”

“And you must be Sherlock Holmes,” she said, turning to Sherlock.

“Hullo,” Sherlock replied as she turned back to John.

“It’s great to finally meet you. Most of the newest victors feel comfortable talking to the previous year’s victor about mentoring duties and such; for you, that’s me. I know you’ve got Mycroft, but just in case you can’t find him, you know who to ask for.”

“Sometimes it’s easier for the victors to speak to someone who was in their shoes not too long ago,” Mycroft explained to John. “Or, in my case, doesn’t have a victor from their own District to mentor them.”

“You’re lucky you’ve got Mycroft – he takes all the newbies under his wing when they first come in, no matter where they’re from. When you get to District Four you’ll meet his mentor, Dean Bainbridge – they’re best pals, you’ll see.”

“District Four?” Sherlock repeated, and looked up at his brother. “That’s a Career District.”

“I’ve found Dean is unlike most of the Career tributes,” Mycroft informed him. “Not to mention the fact that I didn’t have much a choice, either way.”

It was then Sherlock noticed John wasn’t paying attention – he was looking between the three victors, as if trying to read them. Sherlock squeezed John’s hand, and found that John wasn’t even focused enough to return the action. Sherlock was about to whisper John’s name – tear him from his flashbacks – but then it hit him: these victors were not only victors – they were mentors, and not just that but _Victor Trevor’s_ mentors. John was trying to deduce them; trying to figure out if he was forgiven – if they were angry – if they blamed him –

* * *

John only stopped trying to read the previous victors once they left for the stage with the mayor of District 9. He fought for his thoughts – for rational thinking –

 _“Become a stone, John._ _It’s the only way I’ve found to survive this life.”_

He barely registered Sherlock letting go of his hand, or the microphone being clipped onto his chest, or doors opening before him –

_Become a stone. Become a stone._

But there was one thought that kept cutting through, and that was what John thought about as he walked onto the stage:

_“We should not be forced to carry this weight.”_

As the mayor gave his speech, John chanced a glance into the crowd. On Jeanette Chaplin’s podium stood her family – her mother and father and a small army of children, all of them younger than fifteen, which was how old Jeanette was, John found himself remembering. He only looked at the other podium with his peripheral; he could not look at the picture of the boy it represented, or the man who had no family left because of him –

“John?”

John snapped his head over to the mayor, and found everyone was quiet, staring – waiting for him. As he fumbled for his Capitol-issued index card, he was for once glad he could not see Mycroft’s expression. As John felt the heat of embarrassment inch its way up his neck and spread across his face, he rushed through his speech.

 _I need to get out,_ his mind chanted. _I need to get out._

_“We should not be forced to carry this weight.”_

_– need to get out –_

John rushed through the speech, stumbling and stuttering over his words, just needing to say them in order to finish and go somewhere to keep the entire world away from him for five seconds –

The Capitol’s speech was over, and he quickly opened the envelope that contained Victor’s speech – wanting to get it over with before he lost all of the little strength he had to just stand there and speak –

He glanced up at the boy’s podium in a lapse of judgement, and he met the man’s eyes – the eyes of Victor Trevor’s father – and could not become the stone he wanted so desperately to be. He couldn’t be anything – he just stopped everything and stared at him for a moment, his mind miles away from his body:

_“…John…”_

_“Victor – Jesus – I’m sorry – I’m so sorry –”_

_“It’s coming from over here!”_

_“Victor we have to get up we’ve got to move now –”_

_“John – go –”_

_“No no no – I can fix this – please get up – Victor –”_

_“Run.”_

_“Victor, I –”_

_“_ John _.”_

He barely registered the papers in his hands dropping to the ground. Just when he realized this, before he could do anything else, the words were spilling out of his mouth. He could not stop them; they all jumbled together, like they were being pushed out of him:

“I thought he was Moran.”

It took a moment for John to realize he had spoken at all – maybe if he hadn’t seen the shocked and confused faces in the crowd, he wouldn’t have even noticed. There was no way to undo what he did, so he dug his hole deeper; repeating it louder, speaking directly to Mr. Trevor:

“I thought...he was Sebastian Moran. I was scared, and I panicked. If I had paid attention – if I had thought for two seconds – I wouldn’t have done what I did. Victor Trevor...was kind, and loyal, and he was always smiling; I always admired him for that. Even despite the circumstances he was friendly to everyone; I found myself wishing we could’ve met outside of the Games, so we could be friends. Real friends, ones that know each other for years and not just a week before...” He took a shaky breath, and continued. “Not a day passes where he doesn’t cross my mind. Even on my way into this District I thought of him; to be honest, I saw him in the grain. He was bright, and beautiful, and full of life. And I’m sorry I took that away from him. I’m sorry that was taken away from him at all, but even more so that I was the one who took it.” He was crying now, but he pushed himself on. “He was forgiving in the end – and that’s not just wishful thinking; I don’t think anyone can forgive me for what I’ve done, even if that’s just outliving their child or sibling or friend... But I really think he forgave me.” He didn’t feel like that was enough – there had to be more he could do – “I...I want to give a month of my winnings to you, every year for as long as I live. I want to do the same for the families of Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Philip Anderson, Molly Hooper, and Mary Morstan.” Their names flowed out of his mouth – the easiest he had ever said them. “These are the lives that have touched me the most; I will never forget a single person in that Arena, but these six people weren’t just my allies – they were my friends, probably some of the greatest friends I’ve ever had. I know it can never replace what I took away from you, but I hope you know how much I...how sorry I am. They were all amazing people. They deserved so much more.”

There was a silence, as everyone stared at John, positively shocked at what he had done. No one had ever offered any of their winnings to anyone before – John wasn’t even sure if it was allowed, but he didn’t care. John and his family could definitely survive without half a year’s winnings; they had lived without winnings at all for so long, anyway. In fact, John’s family was still forgetting that they didn’t have to use everything as sparingly as before, even six months later. A month of winnings could feed a family for a year if they were anywhere near as sparing as they probably have been for all of their lives.

He didn’t know what was keeping him on the stage until he realized what he was looking at: Victor’s father. He was waiting for a response, some sign of forgiveness – anything –

And then it came: Mr. Trevor held three fingers to his mouth, kissed the tips, and raised his hand into the air – the same thing Greg had done to honor the dead – the same thing Sherlock had done to honor John when he was reaped. Mr. Trevor nodded, and John found his voice again.

“Thank you,” he said into the microphone, the last of his tears falling down his face, and he left the stage.

As soon as the doors were closed Sherlock took John into his arms, and held him for what seemed like an eternity. There were no words spoken – John knew that Sherlock knew there was nothing he could possibly say to make him feel any better. As soon as Sherlock let go he was enveloped in Mycroft’s arms, and he was whispering into John’s ear.

“I am so proud of you.” And then, a single beat later, his whole demeanor changed. “ _Never_ apologize for living through the Games; that’s not what the Capitol wants to see. Do you understand me?”

It took a moment for John to get over the shock of Mycroft’s tone going from so heartfelt to terribly dangerous.

“Am I in trouble?” John asked.

“You shouldn’t be. If President Snow wants to refuse your request I’ll speak to him,” Mycroft promised, and he let go of John, revealing Louise Neal wiping her eyes, watching him. A thousand years ago, he might’ve made a joke about how he normally doesn’t make girls cry upon their first meeting, but he was nowhere near the person he was then – he wasn’t even sure the person he used to be would recognize the person he was, now.

Louise spread open her arms, waving John in.

“Come on,” she said, as if she was letting a guard down – perhaps she was, John thought as he hugged her. The hug lasted for only a few seconds, and then she held him at arm’s length. “I only knew him for as long as you did, but he would’ve wanted you to win, out of everyone,” she said quietly, and John found himself nodding.

“Thank you,” John whispered.

“He’d also want you to forgive yourself,” Louise replied, and then, with a half-smile, she was gone, and they were all being whisked away to the dinner that John really did not want to attend.


	5. Grounding

There wasn’t a day that was harder than Victor’s. John followed Mycroft’s orders: he did not apologize for winning, or even living longer than the people he was talking about. In District 8, he spoke of how young Molly was, and how brave she had been for making it farther than any twelve-year-old had in a long while. District 7 was as easy as it could be – John had never spoken to either Paul Dimmock or Lucy Harrison. District 7 had the highest amount of victors out of the nine outer Districts – seven victors in all, six of them still alive. District 7 held the oldest of victors – Beatrice Reeves, who won the Eleventh Hunger Games when she was 17 years old, Mycroft told them – who was now eighty-one years old, blind, senile, and using a wheelchair in her old age.

“Beatrice is one of the nicest victors you’ll ever find,” Mycroft had said.

“You’re too sweet, Myc,” the old woman said as he kissed her hand.

“Myc? Really?” Sherlock asked, and Mycroft glared at his brother and shushed him immediately.

Beatrice sat up considerably at the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

“Is this little Sherly?” she asked, reaching out towards Sherlock. “Myc’s told me all about you – you’re such a peach! How old are you, now?”

“He’s eighteen, Nana,” Mycroft said as Sherlock shook her hand, muttering a half-hearted correction of his name, red in the face.

“Right! Yes, yes – where’s your other one? Johnathan?” she asked, and John stepped forward.

“Right here, ma’am,” he said, and she smiled up at him. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Reeves,” John said, and she waved him off.

“Call me Nana, dear; everyone does,” she said, and they shook hands. “Oh, dear – your heart is so big.” She looked up at him – directly into his face, despite the milky film over her blind eyes. “What are you doing here? How did you win with a heart so big?”

It took all of the effort John had not to rip his hand out of hers.

* * *

After leaving District 7, the train stopped for fuel at dusk. Since District 7 was farther north than even District 12 was, the District saw snow, as opposed to Districts 11, 10, and 9, who did not. The other Districts also got snow, but never the amount that Districts 12 and 7 did.

Sherlock knew where they would be when they woke up the next day: District 6, home of two things Sherlock and John both dreaded. For John, he would have to face Greg Lestrade’s broken family; for Sherlock, he would have to see the four surviving victors from the District – which everyone knew were victims of the Morphling addictions they started once they won – he had to look into the face of what he was so close to becoming, if it wasn’t for John. John sat at the window, watching the snow fall outside, and Sherlock knew John was thinking of tomorrow – of Greg. John had really opened himself up and let two people in while he was in the Capitol and the Arena, and those two people were Victor Trevor and Greg Lestrade. Sherlock didn’t blame him; Victor brightened everything he touched, and Greg had reached out to John when no one else would.

He watched John – he was losing him; John was losing sight of where he was.

John needed grounding.

Sherlock walked up to his boyfriend. “Hey,” he said quietly, and it took a moment for John to look up – for him to realize Sherlock was speaking to him. “Let’s go for a walk.”

John looked back out the window.

“I’d rather not,” he said, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms – like a child in the beginning stages of a tantrum.

“Come on, John, I’m –”

“Bored?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock, his eyes dark with a feeling Sherlock couldn’t put his finger on. Annoyance? Anger? Fear? “Are you _bored,_ Sherlock?”

Fear – definitely fear. Because those weren’t just Sherlock’s words, anymore; they were Jim Moriarty’s, too.

“We need to get some fresh air,” Sherlock said, and John finally shrugged and stood up, his bad leg quivering. “Do you want your cane?”

“No,” John said, yet held his arm out for Sherlock to link his arm with.

Every Peacekeeper they ran into warned them not to go too far away from the train, and Sherlock assured them that they wouldn’t with increasing annoyance. Of course, everything in Sherlock’s being wanted to take John as far away from the train as they could possibly go, but it was too cold, too dark, and John was too under the Capitol’s eye.

And so they both walked, leaving their footprints in the previously untouched snow. It wasn’t long before John was pointing out the red of cardinals in their reserved world covered in long shadows and snow. Sherlock generally hated small talk, but if it meant that John wasn’t shutting himself down, then he could make as much idle chit-chat as he wanted.

Once they were far enough away from the train, John spoke of other things. “I know what you’re doing, by the way,” he said quietly.

“I know you do,” Sherlock replied. “I never said you were an idiot.”

“Yes you have,” John said, and Sherlock glanced over to see John smiling, shaking his head. “Thank you, though. Really. This has been – this has been rough.”

“I know it has. You’ve barely slept.”

“I’m turning into you,” John chuckled.

“Please don’t,” Sherlock deadpanned, and John stopped, looking back at the train.

“What if we just ran?” he asked, quietly, as if sharing a secret.

“They’d find us,” Sherlock whispered, letting the wind carry his voice to John’s ears. “And you’ve got Harry and your parents to worry about. And I’ve got Mycroft,” he said, louder.

John sighed, defeated. “I don’t want to go back,” he murmured, and Sherlock wrapped him in his arms.

“You’re almost done.”

“No I’m not,” John whispered, and Sherlock let go to get a better look at him, tilting his head to the side, confused. “It doesn’t even feel like I’ve left.”

“Do you need –”

“No, it’s not like that – I know where I am. But it doesn’t feel like anything’s changed – I’m still being watched by the Capitol, I’m still doing things I never wanted to do, I’m still always thinking about who I’ve outlived –”

In desperation, trying to distract him, Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s, and John pushed him away. They stood, staring at each other – Sherlock devastated, and John fearful, shaking his head.

“No...no,” he whispered. “Not now.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered back, and John nodded.

“It’s fine – just, not now.”

There had been times where Sherlock had been rejected before – not even rejected, it was just that John had declined Sherlock’s offers of affection – but there wasn’t a time that had hurt this badly.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said again, and John hugged him.

It was always hard for Sherlock when John was lost like this – lost within his own head. It was probably even harder for John, and Sherlock always kept that in mind; Sherlock’s pain was irrelevant – this wasn’t about him. This was about John, and it would only ever be about John.

“We should go back,” John said quietly after a few moments, and Sherlock nodded.

They walked, hand in hand, back to the train. They did not speak until they were in the clearing, and John pointed ahead. “Look,” he said quietly.

Mycroft Holmes stood at the side of the train, under the lights of the fuel shed, smoking a cigarette, watching the snow falling in the distance.

The winters were always difficult for Mycroft; John could at least get away from his Arena, but Mycroft’s Arena came to him every year. Mycroft did a good job of hiding his flashbacks, but Sherlock had learned one thing over the years: Mycroft only smoked when his mind got to be too much.

Mycroft needed grounding, too, and Sherlock knew just how to do that.

“Watch this,” he said to John, and picked up a handful of snow.

Sherlock approached his brother, creeping quietly, cupping the snow in his hand into a round shape.

When he was almost on top of him, he stood up straight, throwing the snowball, but in the same instant Mycroft spun around, opening the umbrella in his hand and using it as a shield. The snow hit the top of the umbrella, and Mycroft closed the umbrella, looking down at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled up at him, sheepishly, as if he had just gotten caught with his hand in a cookie jar.

“You should not have done that,” Mycroft warned, and Sherlock was reminded of the fact that his brother had once killed others – had the reflexes of a whip.

With that, Sherlock knew it was the end of the moment, and Mycroft was fully prepared to turn away, finish his cigarette, and go back into the train.

And then, a different snowball blew past Sherlock and knocked Mycroft’s hat right off of his head. Sherlock turned and found John already scooping up snow for the next attack.

He then turned back to Mycroft, smiling, and was met with a snowball in his face (courtesy of Mycroft).

[A game began – for a while it was the two of them verses Mycroft, throwing and dodging snow, hitting the train and the trees and each other, racing around in the dim light and laughing. Then it became every man for himself, hiding behind trees and sneaking up on the other two players.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2vFLW-idOxk)

[It was a game – a real game, not like the Games they were all done playing.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2vFLW-idOxk)

Who knows how long later, Mrs. Hudson called the boys back onto the train. As they approached, covered in snow, red in the face and laughing, they could tell she was disappointed.

“You’re making us late, all three of you!” she cried. “I didn’t think _you_ of all people would participate in such behavior,” she said as Mycroft passed her.

“What can I say?” Mycroft said, brushing snow off of his jacket. “My brother brings out the best in me.”

* * *

John did not know what helped him, whether it was the snowball fight Sherlock had initiated the night before, or fact that he knew Greg Lestrade never planned to win the Hunger Games, or some combination of the two, but somehow it was easier for him to get through Greg’s speech in District 6:

“Gregory Lestrade came to me during our training sessions, and took me under his wing. He introduced me to Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson – my main alliance while in the Games; the Underdog Alliance, as I've been told we were called. I am forever indebted to Greg, because of this; without his kindness, I would not be alive. In the Arena, he told me something that changed everything: Greg did not plan to live. When I was reaped, I thought it was a death sentence. For Greg, it definitely was...and he was at peace with that. He said goodbye to his family and friends and let the Arena take him. For this reason, I believe that Greg Lestrade was the bravest tribute in the Arena, for he chose to lose – which is something I’m sure that no tribute in the Hunger Games has ever done, not from the start, at least. We were all so obsessed with winning that we lost ourselves; even me. But Greg remained true to himself up until the final moment. He was not afraid of death like the rest of us were – he just waited for his life to end, while we all fought amongst ourselves for our next breath. And that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do – just wait and not be afraid of death. Greg Lestrade did not want to be remembered; did not want to be special. But he is special, and he will always be remembered in our hearts, especially in those he mattered to the most. We will carry his spirit with us – his humility, his bravery, his kindness to others. There needs to be more people like Greg Lestrade in this world, and I hope I am blessed with the fortune to meet them.”

And that was the end of the difficult speeches, for now. Districts 5, 4, 3, and 2 held no difficult people. Not even District 1 – the false home of Jim Moriarty – held anyone that difficult. Sure, John would have to say _something_ about his opponent in the end, but given the fact that there wasn’t a person John hated more than Jim, John didn’t care.

[As the train made the travel south, John and Sherlock were treated to the idea of spring – everything wet from the melting snow, and the new flowers blooming through the dampened ground. Of course District 12 had seen spring, but this was somehow different for them – being in the cold for so long and getting a private taste of what was going to come to their District over the following months.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8inJtTG_DuU)

[The Victory Tour was actually beginning to feel victorious – like the vacation Mrs. Hudson always said it should’ve felt like.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8inJtTG_DuU)

Sherlock and John spent most of their train rides cuddling in bed, creating silly word games for themselves to pass the time. Sometimes, Mycroft would interrupt, which would lead to them pushing each other across the bed as if them touching each other so intimately was a secret and not something the entire country expected of them, but Sherlock’s brother was always welcome despite that. Together, the three of them spoke as if they were not on the train – as if the horrors that had happened to John and Mycroft in the past had never transpired.

Sherlock and John also took advantage of every fuel stop the train made – getting off and exploring the area, until a peacekeeper yelled at them to come back. They basked in the feeling the new season gave them – everything renewed, like the world was shedding its skin. Mrs. Hudson nearly cried when she witnessed Sherlock presenting John with one of the newly-bloomed flowers. This embarrassed the hell out of both of them, but they quickly recovered, based on the kiss they shared immediately after.

* * *

In District Four, Sherlock and John met Dean Bainbridge – the man who had helped Mycroft through his first year of mentoring.

There were ten total victors from District 4, but eight of them were alive – but one of the victors had gotten permission from the Capitol to stay home sick, not wanting to spread around whatever he had contracted. Still, it was easy to tell which one was Dean. The dark-skinned man looked only a year older than Mycroft, which was Sherlock’s first clue. The second clue was the fact that, while the rest of District 4’s victors kept their distance from the District 12 arrivals, Dean strode up directly to the group upon entering the room, smiling the entire way. Sherlock’s deduction was confirmed when Mycroft, a man who despised the Career Districts almost as much as Sherlock, opened his arms and allowed Dean to hug him.

“Mycroft,” he said as he went in for the hug, patting Mycroft’s back.

“Hello, Dean,” Mycroft replied, smiling.

“Let me look at you,” he said, pulling Mycroft back and holding him at arm’s length – one hand behind Mycroft’s neck, the other on his side; as if they were about to dance. He pursed his lips as he looked his friend over. “Age does not touch you,” he decided, hugging Mycroft again, and Sherlock realized why Mycroft had warmed up to him, in the beginning – he spoke and acted just like his brother.

“It’s been six months, my friend,” Mycroft reminded him, as they finally stopped embracing. Dean kept his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. Sherlock noticed something he had never seen before. Mycroft always put himself above anyone and everyone who dared think they were more important than him. It didn’t matter who it was; Sherlock had never seen him interact with President Snow, but he was sure that Mycroft would make the effort to make Snow aware that _he_ was the one to be respected. There was only one person he didn’t do this with, and that was John, and that was only because of what he had done for Sherlock. That was, until now. Mycroft viewed John as his equal, which was the closest Sherlock had ever seen to him holding his esteem anywhere near another person’s, but with Dean Bainbridge...it was as if Mycroft was slightly – marginally – submissive to him. Not in any notable way – it was all in the body language between the two of them. Dean had mentored Mycroft almost nine years ago, and Mycroft still held himself in the highest of respects, but it seemed as if Mycroft looked up to him, as opposed to down on him, like he did with just about everyone he met.

“Six months can do a lot to a person,” Dean countered, patting Mycroft’s shoulder. “Speaking of which,” he said, and finally turned to John, shaking his hand. “John Watson – victor of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games. Congratulations.”

* * *

It was then that John realized that he had never heard that word spoken from another victor. In fact, no victor John had met over the course of the victory tour had traded a congratulatory word with him, until now. And John knew exactly why – there was a secret, kept between most of the victors, one that didn’t need telling: there was no reason to congratulate a victor of the Hunger Games.

No wonder – the word dropped a weight into John’s stomach, and a sour taste filled his mouth.

“John, this is Dean Bainbridge: the person who won the Hunger Games the year before I did.”

“Pleasure to meet you – thank you,” John finally choked out, and Sherlock squeezed his hand.

Great – his discomfort was obvious, then.

“He doesn’t mean it,” Mycroft said quietly to John, and John nodded quickly.

* * *

“And this is my brother, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, and Dean turned to Sherlock.

“The great Sherlock Holmes,” Dean said, shaking Sherlock’s free hand. “It’s about time you introduced me to the family; you met Steven years ago,” he joked.

“Yes, but Sherlock’s not exactly what one would call a people-person. If the Capitol hadn't wanted a Johnlock update, he would've happily stayed at home.”

But that wasn’t the reason Mycroft hadn’t introduced Sherlock to any other victor until now, and Sherlock knew it. The real reason was much deeper than that: Mycroft didn’t want to expose Sherlock to the Games more than he had to. But John was in it now, which dragged Sherlock so far in he couldn’t stay out.

“He seems to be doing well enough,” Dean said.

“I’m right here,” Sherlock reminded them, crossing his arms and glaring at them.

“Sorry,” Mycroft said, and glanced at the group of six victors across the room, speaking to only each other and watching them. “It's a shame Mr. Waters couldn't make it; what was it he had, again?”

“Acute bronchitis,” Dean replied, and Mycroft made a face. “He sends his best to John, though.”

“Of course,” Mycroft nodded. “It’s just a shame; I had wanted John to meet him –”

 “Do they normally do this?” John asked, distracted, still watching the other victors watch him. “Just stare and whisper at each other?”

“Who, them?” Dean replied. “During the Victory Tour? Sadly, yes. Career victors tend to put District above basic human decency, but at least we have a chance of warming up to you; you’ll be lucky if anyone from Districts One and Two even looks at you.”

“Antonia might,” Mycroft mused. “She’s...social, somewhat.”

“What does that mean?” John asked.

“She’s unpredictable,” Sherlock guessed, and Dean nodded.

“She has good days and not-so-good days,” Mycroft explained.

“More like good days and days where you need a bomb shelter to hide from her,” Dean said, and glanced over John. “She’s from District Two. Killed her last five opponents at once a few years back. She’s alright, just has problems, like the rest of us,” he explained.

“You probably won’t have to worry about her, though,” Mycroft said. “It’s like Dean said: Career victors don’t really stray from the pack, unless they're needed to.”

* * *

Mycroft and Dean Bainbridge were wrong about Antonia; the day after visiting District 3, John and his team went from District 2 to District 1 in one day, and no one spoke to any of them. John was glad for that, though – he really didn’t care about any of the Career victors. Not to mention the fact he didn’t feel like socializing much, anyway.

The Career Districts had almost-staggering amounts of victors – more than some Districts’ victors put together. Districts 1 and 4 were tied at ten victors in all and eight living victors. District 2, however, had the most victors in all of Panem: twelve victors in all, five of which were still alive. Since District 2’s main export was military, everyone always seemed ready to fight with one another, or try to win a life-threatening bet; to prove their dominance over the others.

To combat the awkwardness of the split room of District 2 verses District 12, Mycroft spoke of the lost victors, of how they won the Games before losing their lives over something far more trivial.

“Cal Sholto was set on fire by his last two opponents,” he explained. “He killed them both while he was still aflame. He had a scar that covered his face, and he never spoke again after that. Three years after he won, he and the newest victor – Rodger Stem – played a game of chicken. And they both lost.”

John knew about that game – the boys at school used to play it when they were younger. John had even played once; he didn’t blink when the punch was thrown. But that’s all it was – false punches with nothing behind it. They were never deadly.

But this, John was realizing, was an entirely different playing field. After the Hunger Games, everything was.


	6. Johnlock

For the first time ever, John was glad to be in the Capitol. They arrived the night of the tour’s stops in Districts 1 and 2, practically falling into their beds. The next morning, Sherlock and John were woken early to be prepped for the victor’s check-in interview with Caesar Flickerman.

“What’s the protocol for today?” John asked Mycroft as cover-up was applied to the shadows under his eyes.

“Just be yourself. They’re looking for a Johnlock update more than anything so just tell everyone how well you and Sherlock are doing. Sherlock?” Sherlock, who was letting someone apply lip gloss with a brush, raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement. “Have you given thought to what we discussed?”

The member of the prep team who was working on Sherlock’s face stepped back, giving him a moment to reply before moving in to touch up on the eyeshadow on his right eyelid.

“Yes.”

“And?” Mycroft asked.

“No.”

“Sherlock –” Mycroft began in a warning tone.

“It’s been six months, Mycroft.”

“They –”

“They can wait!” Sherlock all but shouted, turning to his brother, one eye done and the other untouched, which would’ve looked funny if it wasn’t for the icy glare he was giving him. “John needs time, and if they won’t give it to him I _will_ ,” he said with a tone of finality, turning back to the woman on his prep team so she could finish his other eye.

“Of course, time is something of which we don’t have an infinite supply...” Mycroft mumbled, and Sherlock replied by flipping him off.

“Sherlock, we all know I’m the smart one –”

“Yes, as you never cease to announce,” Sherlock spoke over him, rolling his eyes.

“And that is why I _suggested_ –”

“Then let me be an idiot, would you?” Sherlock asked, wearily. He closed his eyes for his make-up artist. “Let me be an idiot and let me refuse this,” he begged quietly.

* * *

“Sherlock?” John asked, and, at the sound of John’s voice, Sherlock locked his jaw.

“Don’t ask,” he ordered. “Please. Just...don’t.”

John looked up at Mycroft, and Mycroft shook his head. He was only willing to let it go because of the fact that John and Sherlock had an interview with Caesar to do; John didn’t really feel like holding the tension of Sherlock and Mycroft keeping secrets from him when he was supposed to be acting one-hundred-and-ten-percent head-over-heels totally-in-love with Sherlock for the Capitol.

It was so weird for John, being back in the Capitol. He had walked the corridors of the Training Center so many times, but never with Sherlock holding his hand, never so confident that he was not going to die there, or to be brought to a place where he was going to die. And, for the first time, he did not feel the desire to leave his body – to think of other things while he went through the motions of doing whatever the Capitol wanted him to. Of course, this did not take away his desire to leave the Capitol as soon as possible.

Sherlock also wanted to go home – John could tell by the way he wouldn’t stop fidgeting. While they were stood off-stage, hand in hand, waiting for Caesar Flickerman to call them forward, Sherlock swayed back and forth, switching the weight between his feet, staring straight ahead. It almost looked as if he was dancing with nerves. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock snapped out of his trance, looking down at John.

“You alright?” John asked, a smile playing at his lips.

“Fine,” Sherlock said quickly – too quickly, but that was alright. John knew that he was alright; he was just nervous, though he’d never admit it. “You – how about you – are you okay?”

“I’m good,” John assured him, and Caesar called them out.

The crowd went crazy with affection for them, cheering for John and for Johnlock – everyone was quite aware that Sherlock was only there because John was. They were delighted to see Sherlock and John holding each other’s hands, of course, but John couldn’t help but think of the fact that everyone thought they were having sex. Sherlock was probably also thinking about that, because while John was waving to the audience, he let go of John’s hand to place it in John’s furthest back pocket. This earned an extra few whoops and whistles from the crowd, but John was trying to hold back laughter at how uncharacteristic this was for Sherlock.

Yet the feeling was somehow familiar –

_“Is that a knife in your pocket, John, or are you just happy to see me?”_

And for a moment, John was back in the Arena, on his stomach, while Jim Moriarty grabbed his ass, pulling John’s knife out of his back pocket, ready to plunge it into his shoulder –

No. John had to keep himself together – ground himself.

His name was John Watson. He was eighteen years old.

He was not in the Arena. He was in the Capitol, on Caesar Flickerman’s stage. It was mid-day.

Feeling as if reaching through an atmosphere made of gelatin, John pushed past the memory and pulled Sherlock’s hand out of his pocket. John looked up at him, finding Sherlock smiling sheepishly, apologetically, blushing. John smiled back – a condescending smile, as if to say “not here, Sherlock – we’re in public.” He then stopped walking toward Caesar, took both of Sherlock’s hands in his, and kissed his boyfriend deeply, in front of everyone in the Capitol. The audience went wild with applause, and Sherlock deepened the kiss, his tongue pushing itself into John’s mouth. Feeling the heat on his own face, John figured he was probably as red as a cherry from all of the blushing. They were making out, quite passionately, in public – on national television – but John followed Sherlock’s lead; the audience was loving it, anyhow.

For the second time since John’s win, Caesar interrupted the two boys kissing on his stage, claiming they needed to “leave some things to the imagination,” even though they had basically seen everything Sherlock and John had ever done, apart from one (or both) of them developing an embarrassing erection they both tried to ignore at all costs. John was glad neither of them had gotten that excited – then perhaps the Capitol would expect them to have sex right there on stage.

* * *

The interview went quite nicely after that. The conversation was carried mostly by Caesar and John, since John _was_ the victor, and thankfully, sex was not mentioned again. For Sherlock, it was almost enjoyable.

After the interview, Sherlock and John and the team were whisked away to President Snow’s mansion for the Capitol’s Victory Tour banquet and party.

Sherlock did not care about President Snow. He did not care about the Capitol. He did not care about extravagant things or expensive people or mountains and mountains of food they had for every meal. He probably couldn’t care less if someone paid him. But tonight – in the President’s banquet hall, decorated with a ceiling coated in stars, artificial clouds twenty-feet in the air the musicians could _stand on_ , the plushest of chairs and sofas, grand fireplaces, a flower garden (laden with purple irises) and small pond full of exotic fish _inside_ of all places, a beautiful glass dancefloor connected to the pond (creating a tank for the fish), and the walls lined with tables and tables of more food than he had ever seen in his entire life – Sherlock would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little impressed.

Mycroft had prepared them that morning for that night.

“It is _imperative_ that _neither_ of you eat _anything_ before tonight,” he had said when Sherlock and John woke up to find an empty breakfast table.

“Is it really that much?” John had asked.

“It’s really that much,” Mycroft assured him.

“So you didn’t have a problem then, did you?” Sherlock asked, and he noticed John biting his lip to keep from laughing.

“...I’m not going to answer that. Also, and this is important: if you are offered a beverage, _always_ ask what it is.”

This left both boys confused.

“Well, yeah,” John said.

“Obviously,” Sherlock agreed.

“No, you don’t understand – there is going to be a lot of food, and the Capitol...how do I put this? The Capitol doesn’t mind wasting things. In fact, sometimes they revolve around wasting things. What I’m trying to say is this: there will be a beverage that will be offered to you tonight that will force you to...waste what you just ate.”

It took a second for John to put it together.

“...You mean vomit?!”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“That’s sick!” John exploded, punching the table he was previously resting his knuckle on. “Are they not aware there are people who are _actually_ starving?!”

“It’s the way the Capitol works –” Mycroft tried.

“Well it’s stupid –“ John began, but cut himself off at the arrival of Mrs. Hudson, who went on about unimportant things, ending their conversation.

Honestly, Sherlock did not expect anything less from the Capitol. But now he tried not to dwell on the idea of all of these people vomiting in the bathrooms not twenty feet from him.

“Half a bite of everything – we’ll split it,” Sherlock muttered to John.

“Right,” he agreed, but then they were pushed away from the tables by Mrs. Hudson.

“There are _so_ many people that are _dying_ to meet you!” she exclaimed, and Sherlock looked back to find Mycroft waving at his brother, then turning and making his way toward the food.

“Bastard,” Sherlock muttered.

“What’s that, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Nothing,” he replied as they approached the sea of important people with names and faces that Sherlock would very soon forget.

* * *

At the first moment they were able to break away, they dashed towards the tables of food and took everything they could, splitting one small piece of each food item between the both of them. At one point, Sherlock had fed John his piece, which got them both a few cries of affection from onlookers. Inspired, John also fed Sherlock his half-of-a-bite every once in a while. Sometimes, one of them would even hold the whole piece of food in their mouths, forcing the other one to kiss them in order to receive their bite. It was cute and affectionate and so unlike Sherlock and John, which made it everything the Capitol expected to see.

Of course, since John was the victor of the Hunger Games, and this entire party was for him anyway, he was dragged away from Sherlock almost every minute. Obviously fed up, Sherlock did the one thing John never imagined he would do: he invited John to dance.

As they made their way from table to table, tasting only what they both were interested in, Sherlock looked as if he had wanted to say something – in fact, his face turned a darker shade of red every time John looked at him.

“Are you alright?” John finally asked, after feeding him half of a chocolate-covered cheeseball.

“Yes,” Sherlock assured him, putting a little too much pressure behind it, trying to convince him.

“Alright,” John said, taking it in stride; if there was really a problem, Sherlock would probably bring it up after the party, once they were in private. As he reached toward the next dessert they agreed to share, Sherlock caught his hand.

John looked up at him, to find his boyfriend redder still, looking down at the floor, his eyes hiding behind his hair.

“Sherlock?” John asked.

His head tilted toward the dance floor in the center of the room, as if trying to remind himself of his end goal, and then he glanced up – looking everywhere except for John’s eyes.

“Well, I was wondering – well I wasn’t wondering, I was thinking – I was thinking maybe we could – I mean everyone else is; they’re probably expecting it – maybe you’d like to – maybe we – dance?” he forced out, finally looking into John’s eyes. “Would you like to dance with me?”

John was always shocked by Sherlock’s displays of affection, but this was certainly the sweetest display yet. A smile grew across John’s face.

“Yes, Sherlock. I would love to.”

Sherlock, still holding onto John’s hand, led him to the center of the dancefloor, speaking to him as they went:

“I’m going to let you in on a secret, John,” he announced.

“Okay.”

“I...I love dancing. I’ve always loved it,” he revealed, cheeks still flushed. So that’s why he was nervous – it wasn’t the asking that made him so nervous as it was the prospect of telling his secret, despite the fact that it was his best friend he was telling it to.

“Well, keep in mind I know nothing and I’ve got a bad leg, would you?” John requested as they got into starting position: Sherlock’s hand on John’s waist, John’s hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and their free hands holding the other’s.

[“Don’t worry – the Capitol doesn’t really dance as much as they stand in place and sway a bit – I can show you some real dancing at home.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4GbDa2UnAO4) Sherlock then fell into step, leading them. “Half-step-back and half-to-the-right and half-forward and half-to-the-left and half-back –”

“Why half-steps?” John asked, watching his feet.

“I dunno, that’s what Mrs. Hudson taught me,” Sherlock said. “I asked her this morning to show me a few steps; she was amazed at how fast I picked it up.”

“I didn’t even think to ask –” John began as Sherlock too looked down to watch their feet.

“John,” he whispered, cutting him off.

“Yeah?”

“We are dancing on fish, John – we are _dancing_ on top of _fish_ ,” he exclaimed quietly, now watching the fish under the glass under their feet.

John laughed, almost too loudly.

“I don’t know why you’re this excited about it; we can do the same on a frozen pond,” he said.

“But it’s never like this – you can’t see the fish in a frozen pond; the ice is too thick. Do you think we’re scaring them?” he asked, looking back up at John, puzzled.

“They’re _fish,_ Sherlock,” John reminded him, boiling his behavior down to the possibility that he might’ve had a few drinks.

“Right, of course,” he muttered, looking back down at the fish.

“Does Mycroft know?” John asked, after a moment.

Sherlock snapped his head up.

“Does Mycroft know what?”

“About this? The dancing?” John asked, smirking.

“Don’t say a word – if he asks, _neither_ of us have any idea what we’re doing.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yes – you’re atrocious,” Sherlock criticized.

“Damn,” John chuckled.

“Like, honestly – I fear for the lives of my toes,” Sherlock said, grinning.

“Been there, done that,” John said. “Trust me, this is nothing.” He then thought of everyone else – watching them. “Do you think _they_ know how bad we are? I mean – they’re always looking at us, so –”

“They see us,” Sherlock agreed, but then let go of John’s hand to grab his boyfriend’s chin, turning his head toward his. “But they’ll only truly observe this.” He then kissed John, gently and not as deeply as they had on Caesar Flickerman’s stage, but certainly deep enough and sweet enough to rouse a round of applause from onlookers.

They danced and ate until President Snow came out to make a short speech, after which Mrs. Hudson found them and Mycroft, Cinna, and Connie Price and regrouped with them to bring them all back to the train for the ride home.

Even though John was beyond tired, he dragged Sherlock past their bedrooms and to the back of the train, much to Sherlock’s confusion.

“Where are you taking me?” Sherlock asked.

“I want you to see something,” John replied, and that’s all he said until he got to the doors of the last train car. “Here we are,” he said, opening the doors. “Look.”

* * *

Sherlock looked through the large window that made up most of the last car, and saw the Capitol, all lit up, getting smaller and smaller as the train took them farther and farther away.

“I thought you’d like to see it,” John said quietly from behind him, coming up beside him and holding his hand. “Since you wouldn’t get to, again.”

“Not unless you and Mycroft drag me back to the Capitol,” Sherlock muttered.

John chuckled, and they watched the Capitol growing smaller in front of them.

“If you take away everything it is, everything it means...” John started quietly.

“It’s pretty,” Sherlock replied, and they didn’t move from that spot until it was finally gone from their sights.

* * *

Once it was gone, Sherlock led the very tired John to his room and helped him into bed. As he was very quickly drifting away, he felt Sherlock rubbing his back.

“Thank you for dancing with me, tonight,” he whispered into John’s ear, and kissed his temple.

John wanted to tell him that it was his pleasure, but a dull rush of panic fled through him at the thought that Sherlock seemed like he was just tucking John in – like he was going to leave.

[“Sherlock – stay,” he mumbled his plea, voice slurred with sleepiness.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dmFBc9z6vYU)

[Sherlock exhaled, and John could feel the smile in the simple breath. He then made his promise:](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dmFBc9z6vYU)

[“Always.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dmFBc9z6vYU)


	7. The Last Good Day

John woke up in the early afternoon, but Sherlock was already up and getting dressed.

“Someone’s excited,” John mumbled, placing his hands behind his head, watching his boyfriend pull on his white button-up shirt.

“I’d rather be home than anywhere else in this god-forsaken place. How do you think Harry’s doing?”

John grinned.

“It seems like you two are the best friends now – I should be jealous.”

“Don’t be – without you we wouldn’t have met. Also, there’s that small other part –”

“Yeah, yeah – okay you win,” John said, cutting him off before he even suggested what John imagined what Sherlock was going to say. “I’m sure she’s fine – probably bracing herself for our arrival.”

“Bracing herself? Really? We’re her two favorite people; she’s probably just as excited as I am.” He finished buttoning his shirt, looking at himself in the mirror in the room. John normally threw a sheet over the thing; he tried not to catch his own reflection, these days. “I don’t know why I’m doing this – we’re going to be shoved into monkey suits as soon as we get home.”

“Well, we can’t go from the train to the mayor’s house in our pajamas,” John said as Sherlock began to put the sheet back over the mirror.

“Right – we have photos to star in. Knowing the paparazzi, if we arrived in our pajamas they’d think we were fucking all day and then only just now realized we had pulled into District Twelve’s station; like Mrs. Hudson would let us do that,” he chuckled, going into the bathroom and fetching John a towel.

* * *

John sat up, and caught the towel Sherlock tossed at him.

“They’ll leave us alone after this, you know – they have no reason to drag me out except for mentoring, and by that time they’ll be excited over the new tributes. And after that, I won’t be the new victor anymore,” John said as he crossed the room and went into the bathroom.

“And then we can find our place,” Sherlock said, and leaned on the bathroom’s doorframe as John brushed his teeth. “I’ve been thinking about it, actually – I think it’s somewhere near the ocean.”

“The ocean? What makes you think that?”

“Well, no one’s allowed near the coast, so maybe there’s something there. And if not...we’ll find something that can go on the water and see what’s out there.”

“Out where?”

“You know, in the world.” Sherlock said, and John shooed him away from the door so he could close it – leaving it open just a crack. “It can’t be just us, here – it really can’t,” Sherlock spoke through the crack, leaning his head against the doorframe, as John started the shower and began to take off his clothes. “We’d know about it – we’d hear about other victors and travel the oceans to meet them. Have Hunger Games conventions and whatnot.”

“Why wouldn’t they stop it, then? Whoever’s out there?” John asked.

Sherlock pressed his forehead into the doorframe until it hurt as he thought.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s been seventy-five years – the way I see it, there’s four options: they don’t know, they know but they don’t care, they know but don’t know how to help, or they’ve tried to help but the Capitol’s not only fought off all attacks but also kept it all under wraps. And all of them seem impossible for various reasons.”

“I think I’d like to see the ocean,” John said quietly after a few moments of Sherlock silently pushing his head into the doorframe. “It sounds nice. And I know they use it for Arenas sometimes – from what I’ve seen it looks nice –”

“You’ll see the coast. In person. I promise.”

Finally, Sherlock heard John turn off the water.

“Okay.”

* * *

After reaching District Twelve, getting dolled up by the prep team, having dinner with the Mayor Undersee, and making the final speech, the Victory Tour was officially over. The next day was the Harvest Festival, which was normally a small celebration any other year, but since the Capitol was throwing the party this year because of John’s victory, it would be an all-out event. When John woke up the next morning, he first took a few moments to relish in the fact that he was in his own bed, and he could hear Sherlock’s quiet, slow breathing beside him, instead of the roar of the train travelling. He considered just staying in his room for the day – he didn’t need to make an appearance, really. The Harvest Festival wasn’t about John, it was about family. In the end, that’s what got John out of bed; other than a brief conversation the night before, he hadn’t had any communication with his family for the past two weeks.

He wrote a quick note to Sherlock and left it on his pillow in his head’s place, a simple “I’m downstairs” to alert Sherlock that he had not lost him. Then, he made the decent, on his own, down the stairs – the first time he had willingly left Sherlock’s side in a while. John didn’t really mind either way – he liked having Sherlock around to keep his fears away and distract him from his thoughts, but he didn’t mind it if Sherlock lived his own life. That’s what he used to do, before all this – sometimes John wouldn’t hear from Sherlock for days, but then he’d show up on his doorstep, chattering a mile a minute as if nothing had happened. He found himself missing that, actually – that would be a real sign of normalcy.

As soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he found Harry walking by – from the kitchen to the sitting room.

“Hey, John,” she greeted him with a smile.

“They’re up?” came John’s mother’s voice from the kitchen.

Harry glanced behind John, looking for Sherlock.

“Nah, just him,” she called back, and then Mrs. Watson came out of the kitchen to see her son.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, approaching John and hugging him. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“Yeah, he’s just asleep – why?” John asked.

“You’re kind of a buy-one-get-one deal,” Harry informed him. “You know – ask for one, and get the other without asking.” Mrs. Watson shot her daughter a look. “What? It’s true.”

“It’s just odd to see you without him, these days,” John’s mother translated.

“Well, don’t worry – we’re fine,” John assured her.

“I’m glad,” she said, hugging her son again.

After Sherlock and Mr. Watson woke up and the family got dressed and ready, they met up with Mycroft and made their way to the center of town.

The center square, where John had stood just over six months ago and was called to go into the Hunger Games, was covered in decorations that the Capitol had provided, and the Harvest Festival was well underway. A tent covered the center square, and large streamers were brought from all corners of the square and joined together at the top of a large pole in the exact center, holding up the tent. There were tables and tables of food by the entrance of the square, and places for people to sit lining the sides. The stage in front of the Justice Building was where members of the Capitol performed warped versions of District 12 music, and before the stage people danced to these warped songs. Children played games, and adults talked, and everyone ate.

John could only just remember the Harvest Festival being this big – when Mycroft won the Games. Sherlock, John, and Harry were only kids, back then – he remembered chasing each other and playing jumping games and hide-and-seek under the table cloths. It was easy to be a child and play – to not understand the Games, or to understand the Games but be able to ignore it for a few more years. John found himself wishing for that innocence again.

He also had a faint memory of dancing back then, too – specifically, John and Sherlock had dared Harry to –

Harry cut in front of Mycroft, causing him to stop. She put out her hand to him, like royalty might if they wanted someone to kiss their rings.

“Mycroft Holmes,” she said, looking up at him. “Would you mind dancing with me?” It struck John then how much Harry had grown. He remembered the last time she had done this: her face was almost as red as her hair, wringing her hands, and looking as if she was asking her toes to dance instead of Sherlock’s older brother.

Mycroft smirked and took Harry’s hand.

“It would be my greatest honor, Harriet Watson,” he said, which was exactly what he had said last time, and led her to the dancefloor, Harry turning her head back to the boys only to stick her tongue out as they went.

Sherlock then held his hand out for John.

“Do you just want to show up your brother or do you actually want to dance with me?” John asked as he took Sherlock’s hand.

“Who said we were going to the dancefloor?”

Sherlock led John into the alley between two buildings, where no one would see them, and where no one would look for them. If it weren’t for the music or their nice clothes or the weird feeling in John’s stomach and all the other things that had changed between then and now, he might’ve drawn similarities between now and their first meeting.

“What are we doing?” John asked, once they were out of sight and the music was quieted by the distance between them and the stage and the building between them.

“Well, I’m not going to teach you how to dance in front of everyone; I do have _some_ compassion,” Sherlock replied.

John chuckled, and he let Sherlock lead them. John was never one to dance when he was younger – he was far too clumsy for it. He only ever begrudgingly agreed to dance with Harry when they were kids; once he was older he stayed as far away as he could from anything that involved dancing. He had tried dancing with a girl once when he was fourteen, but they were both terrible, so it barely counted. [Now, in probably the greatest and worst and most life-altering turn of events John had ever known, he was learning to dance in an alley with Sherlock Holmes.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DyEc2GTz96E)

[As Sherlock had told him before, he was talented. Of course, he was talented in a lot of areas, so it shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise for John to discover yet another thing his friend was good at. The first lessons were awkward, and involved much stepping on feet, shuffling, joking, and giggling, but Sherlock was a good teacher.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DyEc2GTz96E) Not to mention the fact that John didn’t really care how good he was or how good he got;[ he simply wanted to dance with Sherlock for the rest of time.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uMAKbt5m_ig)

“Hey, Sherlock?” John asked after a while, after they had gone back to the Capitol’s half-step way of dancing (since John was the best at that), despite the faster music playing from the stage.

“Yes?”

“You know how they want me to find a talent? So they can parade me around during events?” John asked.

“Yes, what about it?”

“I think I found what I want to do. I mean, as long as you’ll teach me.”

He looked up at his boyfriend to find him grinning like a child.

“Yes – _far_ better than the clarinet,” Sherlock agreed, and John laughed.

* * *

[That was the last really good day Sherlock and John had. They had other good days, of course – a whole three months’ worth.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0AdT51CPX2E)

[Sherlock and John spent the next three months together, whether cuddling in bed all day, or venturing beyond the fence for as long as they could, or hanging out with Harry and Mycroft. The only time they were apart was when Sherlock was at school, and John was with the Monroe’s. Sherlock taught John to be a damn good dancer, and John’s nightmares became fewer and farther between.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0AdT51CPX2E) They even planned their escape for the coast – they would leave during the spring, after John’s nineteenth birthday, once the snow was completely melted, and the Capitol wouldn’t notice John was missing until it was too late. They had everything planned – they had even planned to write notes to give to Mr. and Mrs. Watson, Harry, and Mycroft, explaining what they were going to do, where they were going, and promising they’d come back for them as soon as they could.

On April first, two days after John’s birthday, one week before the date they had decided upon to leave, Harry knocked on the Holmes’ door. Sherlock and John were in Sherlock’s room, compiling a list of things to pack for their journey, and Mycroft, who was in the kitchen, opened the door.

“Hello, Harriet –” they heard Mycroft greet her, but she cut him off.

“Did you know there’s a mandatory broadcast tonight?” she asked him, and Sherlock and John looked at each other.

“I have been informed, yes,” Mycroft replied. Sherlock had woken up that morning to the sound of the Holmes’ phone ringing, but he never did get around to asking his brother what the call was about. “It’s just announcing the Quarter Quell.”

No one that currently stood in the Holmes’ house had ever witnessed a Quarter Quell (Mycroft was only a year old during the last Quarter Quell, and therefore it didn’t count), yet they all knew what the Quarter Quell was. When the Hunger Games were created, it was decided that every twenty-five years the milestone would be marked with a “Quarter Quell,” to refresh the memories of Panem of why the Hunger Games were made and of the people who were killed in the name of rebellion. Those years’ Games would have a mystery giant wrench thrown into the mix, chosen by the very first Gamemakers; something that changed everything and turned the Games on its head. Between the twenty-five year intervals, the Quarter Quell was rarely mentioned, unless the Capitol’s attention was upon a victor from one of the Quells. It wasn’t even mentioned in the Districts that didn’t hold one of the two victors. Other than that, Sherlock and John knew virtually nothing about it.

“Announcing the twist?” Harry asked.

“Yes.”

There was nothing for a moment, and then they heard Harry speak again, just barely through the distance between them.

“...Okay. Right. Thank you, Mycroft,” she said, and they heard the door close.

* * *

With all of the excitement of John’s new life, he had somehow forgotten that life went on, despite his personal win. John may have been taken out of the reaping pool, but Sherlock and Harry were still able to be reaped. Except, Sherlock couldn’t – not if they were leaving –

Sherlock, still locking his eyes with John, whispered harshly:

“It’s just another Games – this doesn’t change anything.”

“She’s not safe,” John whispered back. “She’s still got three more reapings to survive. We have to take her with us.”

Sherlock nodded – a single, sharp nod.

“We’ll tell her tonight, after the broadcast.”

* * *

At seven-thirty that night, the Watsons, Sherlock, and Mycroft all sat before the broadcast projection, save for Mrs. Watson, who was listening from the kitchen as she finished washing everyone’s dishes from dinner. On the screen, President Snow stood at a podium, with two people on each side of him, just in the background. On his right was a small girl in a white dress – his granddaughter – holding a wooden box, and on his left stood and older man in an ugly plaid suit, watching the audience of Capitol citizens below. Snow reminded Panem how the Quarter Quell came to be, of the previous two Quarter Quell’s twists, and the winners of those year’s Games.

The first Quarter Quell was particularly cruel. The tributes were chosen based on who each District voted for, to remind the rebels that their children had died due to their own choices. Those Games were won by a woman named Lucille Cameron Johnson, from District 4. Sherlock wondered how she felt the rest of her years, knowing that she had lived through hell only to return to the people who had sent her there in the first place. According to the photo that was projected behind the president’s head as he spoke of her, she did not take it well at all. In fact, if Sherlock looked closer, he could tell that she was planning her suicide as the picture was being taken.

The second Quarter Quell sent twice as many tributes into the Arena, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen. The winner would have to be truly ruthless in order to kill and survive longer than forty-seven other children, instead of only twenty-three. Fortunately, – or unfortunately, Sherlock couldn’t tell – the Capitol was blessed with his physical appearance. At the announcement of his name – Hannibal Lecter Magnussen – the older man stepped forward and held his hand up to greet the crowd.

“What kind of middle name is _Lecter?”_ Harry asked, loudly, and John snorted in laughter, but Sherlock wasn’t quite paying attention to them at the moment.

There was something that Sherlock didn’t like about him – something in the glint of his eyes beyond the ruthlessness necessary to survive the Games – but he couldn’t put his finger upon it before the attention shifted from him and back to President Snow.

“And now we honor our third Quarter Quell,” he said, and the girl stepped forward, holding the box up to him. He lifted open the lid, revealing tidy rows of small envelopes – for the many years of the Hunger Games to come. Sherlock felt as if he had been punched in the stomach when he saw them, but watched all the same as President Snow took the envelope in the front of the rows, marked with a 75 on the front, opened the envelope and read its contents:

“On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels of the families that they had torn apart with rebellion, the pool of tributes this year will consist exclusively of the siblings of the previous victors from each District.”

There was a moment where the world was silent, taking in the President’s decree – the cheering on the broadcast only creating white noise. Sherlock’s brain had already connected the dots.

The siblings of the victors from each District – the victors’ siblings from District 12 –

Mycroft Holmes and John Watson’s siblings –

Sherlock Holmes and [Harry Watson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_uFyXBcnJwk) were this year’s tributes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHIT, SON.
> 
> Leave a comment~


	8. Sacred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote another chapter, so you all get another chapter! :D Please enjoy!

The sound of breaking glass crashed through Sherlock’s skull – and he was sure something inside of him had broken – until he realized that the others had heard it, too. Harry let out a faint shriek, and Mr. Watson and John were quick to console her. Mycroft had left the room – to comfort Mrs. Watson, who had evidently just shattered one of their dishes by dropping it onto the floor in shock. Sherlock knew why, deep down – he didn’t want Mrs. Holmes’ history repeating itself in the form of Mrs. Watson, but at that moment Sherlock's mind was too scattered to realize it consciously. [All Sherlock could do was stare at the screen. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move – until suddenly he was racing out of the Watson’s front door.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCIMdXLDGig)

[He ran down the steps of the porch, into the dark and the rain, and out of the Victor’s Village. He did not remember jumping District’s 12 fence, but he knew he had when the streets around him turned into the forest floor. He ran until he reached the bottom of a steep hill, and realized where he was. He was in the meadow – _their_ meadow.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCIMdXLDGig) Sherlock Holmes cried out, tears falling down his face, falling to his knees in their irises.

Last year, he had been so prepared to go into the Arena as long as he kept John safe and alive. He was confident he would win – he always thought he would win any Hunger Games, and even now, he knew it was possible.

But Harry Watson would be there, too.

If it were last year and Harry and Sherlock were to go into the Arena together – against each other – Sherlock would be fine. Harry would win, and Sherlock would make sure of that. But now, it felt like he was being stabbed in the heart when he thought of it – of what that plan would entail. For once – for _once_ in his life, he had everything he had ever dreamed of. He had been so happy these past nine months. He hated having to give it up now – after everything –

But he would. Of course, he would. John still had all of his family – Sherlock wasn’t going to be the one to break that. Mycroft could live without him –

“Sherlock! SHERLOCK!”

* * *

As soon as Sherlock had bolted out of the door, John looked at Harry, for permission to go after him. With tears in her eyes, she nodded, and he followed after his boyfriend.

He knew where he would go.

[When he reached the top of the hill in the outskirts of District 12, the one that led down to their meadow, John looked down and saw the most painful image he had ever seen: Sherlock Holmes was crumpled, on his knees, in the pouring rain, sobbing.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0f71XfN_DLI)

[“Sherlock!” he called. Sherlock didn’t move. “SHERLOCK!”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cun2trxHyuM)

[Sherlock raised his head, staring ahead, into the beyond – the beyond they were supposed to cross into, together.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cun2trxHyuM)

[“They knew something,” Sherlock called up. “They had to have. They’re punishing us, for trying to leave – can’t you SEE what’s going on?!” he shouted, his fingers digging into the meadow. John saw Sherlock uproot the irises and toss them aside in anger, sick of their love story and what it had done to them now, and it felt like he had done the same to John himself – tore him apart.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cun2trxHyuM)

[“Sherlock –” John whispered.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cun2trxHyuM)

[“We’ve got to go now!” he called up. “We’ve got to go we’ve got to stop this –”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cun2trxHyuM)

[“And if they find us trying to get away?” John called down. “They’ll kill us –”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cun2trxHyuM)

[“LET THEM!” Sherlock roared in a voice that John had never heard before – in a voice that genuinely scared him.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cun2trxHyuM)

It was then John heard it – the roar of a hovercraft. It was coming fast – making its rounds – and if Sherlock didn’t move, it would find them.

For a moment, John considered Sherlock’s idea – letting them find them. Letting them kill them. He let the thought go as quickly as it came – shoving out of his mind –

[“Sherlock – Sherlock!”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84V4AQIZMUg)

[“What?!” he called back, twisting around, glaring up at John.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84V4AQIZMUg)

[“Ground me,” John pleaded. “I don’t know where I am, and I need you to ground me. Please, Sherlock.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84V4AQIZMUg)

[There was a moment of silence between them, Sherlock’s scrutinizing eyes taking John in, and then he spoke:](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84V4AQIZMUg)

[“You’re lying. You know exactly where you are.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84V4AQIZMUg)

[“Not in your head, I don’t. Where am I in your head?” John asked, and finally he felt hot tears rolling down his cheeks. “I need to know. Please.” John could see the searchlights approaching, the circles of light touching the outskirts of the meadow – “I need you, Sherlock.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84V4AQIZMUg)

It was only then Sherlock slowly stood up, and casually made his way up the hill. Seconds after Sherlock had joined John under the cover of the trees, the beam of light passed over the place he had previously occupied.

They fell into each other’s arms, and then took a step away from each other. They looked into each other’s eyes, and for the first time since John had come home, there was no spark in Sherlock’s eyes.

“The way I feel about you has not changed, and I don’t think it ever will,” Sherlock said after a few moments.

John’s lip trembled, and he closed his eyes.

“Damnit, Sherlock – I can't –” he tried to look away – look down – but Sherlock took John’s chin in his hand, and he opened his eyes.

“John. I'm not going to ask you to choose between us; [we both know that it's not me that you'd save](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9NN9JY5fbwc) – don't try to dispute it –” he said quickly as John opened his mouth to do exactly that. “– we know it's true. I promise you I’ll do everything I can to protect her.”

John took his face away from Sherlock’s touch.

“You...” he looked down, trying to find the words – trying to find any words – to describe how he felt. “I hate you,” he whispered, but it didn’t feel right.

“No you don’t,” Sherlock whispered back. “You hate everything else.”

And he was right. He was so right. He didn’t hate Sherlock – he hated the fact that he felt so forced to choose.

John didn’t know who started to lead who back towards the fence, but neither of them spoke until John saw the fence in the distance.

[“Are we breaking up?” he finally asked, feeling childish for even asking. “So I can focus on helping Harry?”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_P_SrSvXig)

[“Would that be easiest?” Sherlock asked, and John found himself shaking his head.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_P_SrSvXig)

[“No. I can’t – not after everything – I can’t just leave you,” he said quietly.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_P_SrSvXig)

[“You’re going to have to learn to, either way,” Sherlock mumbled back, and yet he was the one who reached out and held John’s hand. “I’m sorry.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_P_SrSvXig)

[John squeezed Sherlock’s hand in his.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_P_SrSvXig)

[“Me too.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_P_SrSvXig)

* * *

They made their way to the Watson’s, but paused when they saw the Holmes’ door wide open. They walked in, hand and hand, and were immediately met with the sounds of crashing glassware: Harry Watson was throwing the Holmes’ dishware around the house, and Mycroft Holmes was calmly supplying her with the ammunition.

Upon seeing the two boys, Mycroft nodded to Harry, and she dropped what she was doing and approached John.

“We should go,” she said quietly.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, voice hoarse.

[“Sherlock, this is a private matter,” Mycroft tried to explain, but Sherlock held on to John’s hand.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqOjneEJDZg)

[“They stay,” Sherlock argued, voice cracking.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqOjneEJDZg)

[“This is _family_ –” Mycroft tried again.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqOjneEJDZg)

[“That’s _why_ they stay!” Sherlock shouted, tears falling down his cheeks again.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqOjneEJDZg)

Mycroft sighed, and picked up another vase – one Sherlock had only seen once before – from the kitchen table, approached his younger brother, and put the vase into his hands.

Sherlock looked down at it, and then up at him.

“This is your favorite,” he said, realizing. The reason why he had rarely seen it was because Mycroft had kept it in his room; the only room of the house in which Sherlock wasn’t allowed.

[“Nothing is sacred, Sherlock, I'm sure you've learned this by now,” Mycroft whispered.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gbcFPl0KCaM)

Sherlock looked up at his brother, then at John, and finally at Harriet Watson – his new opponent – and then, Sherlock Holmes dropped the vase, just to watch it fall.

[Mycroft was right – nothing was sacred, and nothing would ever be sacred again. He was losing everything, piece by piece, and it could never, ever be mended.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vyL1Q-00kvo)

[But god, did he want to rebuild it.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vyL1Q-00kvo)

[Over the next few months,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IBrUUx95E9w) Sherlock found he wanted to do a lot of things. He wanted to find and take in all of the Morphling his body could handle and then some. [He wanted to go back in time, and stop himself from ever speaking to John Watson, to avoid all of this pain. He also wanted to tear John Watson’s clothes off and make love to him, and give him good memories to look back upon when he was gone.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRXO77hJGKA) He wanted to run and never stop. [He wanted to lay down and die.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Vzw1VKWzlg) But he didn’t do any of those things.

He also didn’t want to do a lot of things. [He didn’t want to run laps around District 12 and lift heavy weights and practice hand-to-hand combat with his brother.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zq9DtH4w6s) He didn’t want to sit with his boyfriend, his brother, and the person who was like a sister to him and watch years and years of the Hunger Games play out in front of him, using past victors to predict what their siblings – Sherlock and Harry’s potential opponents – might be like. [He didn’t want to hold hands with John under the kitchen table during meals just to feel John squeezing onto him for dear life. He didn’t want to kiss John until one of them started crying.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u8aU-3PUSsg) He didn’t want to pretend he wasn’t being stared at by everyone in their school, teachers and students alike. He didn’t want to look at Harry Watson, and look at John looking at Harry Watson with a pain he had never seen before in John’s eyes. But he did all of those things. In fact, every day was a repeat of those things, in different orders.

Mycroft had broken it down for them: every victor had at least one sibling, and unlike all of the other Hunger Games there was no age limit, meaning Sherlock and Harry’s opponents could be aged anywhere from in their sixties and seventies to three years old. There was only one other person who was in a situation like Sherlock and Harry’s – where there was no one else to pick but them – and that was in District Nine, where all of the previous victor’s siblings were girls, except for one: two year old Archibald Neal, who would be three years old by the time reaping day came.

“That’s Louise’s brother, isn’t it?” John had asked the day Mycroft revealed that piece of information.

“It is,” Mycroft replied with a nod.

Sherlock barely remembered the girl with the tattooed freckles – he felt like he had met her years ago, as opposed to a few months – but still he felt sick to his stomach. There would be a three year old in the Arena – his Arena. He’d be fighting for his own life, hear a cannon, and a three year old would have left the earth. He wanted to vomit. What had little Archie done to deserve this? He was a child. What had Harry done? At least Sherlock knew he had earned this, just by being smart – by thinking he could outsmart the Capitol and get away with it.

The day of Sherlock’s twelfth grade graduation didn’t even matter to him – he almost didn’t show up, but Mrs. Watson had begged for him to go through the motions. And so he did, just for her – he got dressed in his best clothes and walked across that stage, receiving his totally-unnecessary diploma. And as the rest of the graduates from his class threw parties and celebrated with their friends, [Sherlock Holmes went to bed in John’s room, where he and John cried silently together.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4jDEAkAnVs)

[He made sure he was never in the same room alone with Harry.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ArlscD4MOQ) He had no idea what to even say to her, but he knew that she had quite a few things to say to him. He didn’t want to hear it – it would make the whole thing seem more real than it already was. It was difficult enough to talk about it every day between the four of them.

It was even harder to look at Mycroft, but he couldn’t exactly avoid being alone with his own brother. There were days that John and Harry spent away from the Holmes’ boys – with their parents. Sherlock didn’t mind that he was away from John these days; John would have to learn to live without him, anyway, and it was important that he spend time with Harry before the Games began.

He should have been doing the same with his brother, but every time he looked at him he felt his stomach drop down to his feet – Sherlock was all he had left. Come summer’s end, Mycroft would be the only Holmes left.

Mycroft had not won the Hunger Games for this.

Those days were normally quiet between the two of them – normally filled with training Sherlock physically or mentally, or strategizing (keeping the thought of Harry Watson a thousand miles away from their conversations).

[“How are you doing?” Mycroft finally asked one night, sitting at the kitchen table as Sherlock passed by to fetch a glass of water. He spoke quickly, as if he was trying to get the words out before he changed his mind.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MiPBQJq49xk)

[“What do you think?” Sherlock replied,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MiPBQJq49xk) keeping in stride, approaching the counter.

There was silence as Sherlock filled his glass, and Mycroft began to speak again as the glass touched Sherlock’s lips.

“Do you remember the story of the appointment in Samarra?”

Sherlock took a sip and recited the story:

“There was once a merchant in the famous market at Baghdad. One day he saw a stranger looking at him in surprise, and he knew that the stranger was Death. Pale and trembling, the merchant fled the marketplace and made his way many, many miles to the city of Samarra, for there he was sure Death could not find him. But when at last he came to Samarra, the merchant saw, waiting for him, the grim figure of Death. ‘Very well,’ said the merchant. ‘I give in. I am yours. But tell me: why did you look surprised when you saw me this morning in Baghdad?’ ‘Because,’ said Death, ‘I had an appointment with you tonight – in Samarra.’”

“The merchant who could not outrun Death,” Mycroft said, nodding. “You always hated that story as a child.”

“I’m still not a fan of it,” Sherlock replied.

“You wrote your own version of the story, as I remember: Appointment in...where was it, again?”

“District Four,” Sherlock muttered, putting the cup to his lips again.

“Ah, yes. The merchant goes to District Four and is perfectly fine. Then he becomes a pirate, for some reason...”

“Because, at the time, I thought everyone in District Four was a pirate,” Sherlock replied, and sighed. “Samarra can’t be avoided, now,” he went on quietly. “Death waits for us all.”

“Of course it does – everybody dies,” Mycroft said with a shrug. “It’s the one thing human beings can be relied upon to do. How can it still come as a surprise to people?”

“I don’t think it’s death itself that’s surprising; it’s the _when_ ,” Sherlock said. “I mean, look at us. We know I had to die sometime but now that we know that I’m going to die in just a few weeks...”

“Hm,” Mycroft nodded to himself as Sherlock put the glass back to his lips. “Well, speaking of that, [I just want you to know...that your loss will break my heart.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DT-dxG4WWf4)

Sherlock nearly choked on the water he was currently drinking as it spurted from his mouth in surprise. He rounded on his brother.

“What the _hell_ am I supposed to say to that?” he asked, outraged.

How could he say such a thing with Harry in the house next door? How dare he make him feel like he had to live – it’s not as if he didn’t feel bad enough already! How could he sabotage him like this –

“Nothing,” Mycroft replied calmly. “I just wanted you to know.”

Of course he did – just like Sherlock wanted John to know that he would die loved last year. But now that Sherlock knew that he was indeed loved, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know it anymore.

* * *

[For the next three months,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IBrUUx95E9w) John Watson watched his life spiral out of control and fall apart.

[John did not hate Sherlock Holmes. He wished he could. He wished he could just detach himself from him and just focus on his sister. He wished he could tear Sherlock from his place in John’s veins. He wished he had never fallen in love with him. He wished he hadn’t met him. He wished he didn’t care – but he did. Of course he did. And he would never stop caring – he could never stop adoring Sherlock Holmes.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0KZuZF01FA)

The nervousness of Sherlock and his sister going into the Arena bypassed his fear for himself last year by miles – something he didn’t even know was possible. It didn’t matter that he was sleeping next to Sherlock, anymore – every night he had nightmares of clones of past victors killing them over and over again, and the next morning he’d wake up to watch more past Games, to inspire the next night’s dreams.

[Sherlock seemed to spend his days bouncing between three states of mind. Sometimes he would brood silently, curled up on the couch or on his bed, or sitting upright but just staring out into space. Sometimes he would be overly affectionate to John; hugging him more often for as long as he could get away with, and kissing him deep into the night – desperate to act as if things were normal or to get as much as he could in before he was gone. Then there were some days where he was as focused as he could ever be on the Games – asking Mycroft and John about what everything was like – the reaping, the Capitol, the interviews, training, the Games themselves –](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGWAWIO3h6A)

“Did I ever tell you the story of the East Wind?” Sherlock asked John one night, as they were both trying (and failing) to fall asleep.

“The what?” John asked.

“The East Wind – it’s a story Mycroft told me when we were kids. Before, you know. Everything.”

“What is it?”

“The East Wind was a terrifying force that sought out the unworthy – generally me – and plucked them from the earth, laying waste to all in its path,” Sherlock chuckled at the memory. “Mycroft – he used to chase me around our old house, pretending to be the East Wind, saying that he was coming to get me...”

“But Mycroft isn’t terrifying –” John started.

“Oh, you haven’t seen him when he’s angry,” Sherlock assured him. “When he _is_ angry, my brother can be significantly worse than he promises the East Wind can be.”

“Hm. So why are you telling me this?” John asked. “I mean, why are you bringing this up, now?”

“Because I can feel it, now,” Sherlock replied. “I can feel it circling above our heads; it’s been there since the Quell’s twist was announced, but, as time gets closer...sometimes I can’t hear myself think over the wind in my ears.”

John glanced over to see that Sherlock was staring up at the ceiling, and John’s eyes returned to watching the ceiling with him.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

[Meanwhile, Harry seemed strong on the outside, but John knew his sister.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KUxYdUXFI0M) She never cried in front of him or their parents, passed out false smiles and false confidence like it was her job, and stood up straight and asked all the right questions to him and Mycroft. There was one night, though, when John had had a particularly bad nightmare and needed to go to the bathroom so his panicking wouldn’t wake Sherlock, he heard Harry sobbing behind her bedroom door. He wasn’t sure what brought him to open the door, but when he did he found his sister – his baby sister – on her bedroom floor, with [a bottle of whiskey in hand,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pUQ_x_Vt9F0) tears streaming down her face. His stomach dropped to the floor, but he couldn’t help remembering the last time he was in this position: when Sherlock had overdosed.

She looked up, wide eyed, at her brother.

“John –” she began, but John was already on his knees, bringing his sister into his arms. “I’m sorry – I’m sorry –”

He did not speak to her at first, but cried with her and held her, cursing the Capitol for doing this to them – to all of them.

“I love you,” he eventually ended up whispering in her ear. “With all my heart. That doesn’t mean I’m not basically pissed off with you, though –”

“I know –”

“I’m very pissed off with you, and I swear to god you’re never touching a bottle again – where did you even get it from?” he asked, trying to look at her face.

Harry sat up, wiping her eyes.

“I’m surprised they didn’t notice –” she began, her voice slurred. “I guess with everything...”

Mycroft’s stash – of course. He was surprised he didn’t know right off the bat.

“How long has this even been going on for?” he asked, prying the nearly empty bottle from her other hand.

“Since we found out?” she admitted, glaring at the bottle in John’s hand. John puffed out his cheeks and exhaled, unsure of what to do – hating himself for not noticing.

“Don’t tell mom and dad – please,” she said, looking up at him.

“Don’t do this again and I won’t,” John whispered. “Promise me.”

“I won’t do it again. I’m sorry, John –” she cried, throwing her arms around him.

It didn’t matter that apparently the Districts “deserved” the Games for rebelling all those years ago. John thought back to his best friend’s Morphling addiction that he developed out of fear of being reaped, Harry that night with her bottle of whiskey, the terrors that haunted John’s dreams every night, and Mycroft’s face as he stood over the tribute he had killed in his Games and knew that no one could ever deserve a pain as deep as this.


	9. Family

Harry was the one who thought of rebelling. Compared to what the Districts had done before to rebel, and what Sherlock and John had planned to do, this was nothing, which was probably the only reason why Mycroft let them do it.

The morning of the reaping ceremony, instead of wearing the dress her mother had picked out for her, Harry Watson came down the stairs in a black t-shirt and ragged black jeans, with gaping holes in the knees.

“Harry –” her mother began, but Harry cut her off.

“No. I’m not going into this under their thumb. I don’t want to dress nice for them. I want to be me, and I want to do what I feel, and this is how I feel. This is what I want to do.”

Mrs. Watson looked to Mycroft for help, but he shrugged.

“I was about to go home and change, actually,” he admitted. [“Harriet’s right: this isn’t a happy occasion. I don’t see why we have to act like it is.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EtiepuzMSyE) He looked over at his brother. “Sherlock –”

“Way ahead of you,” Sherlock assured him, already taking off the tie that Mycroft had forced him to wear and standing up to go back home and change.

Mycroft then looked at John.

“You’re a mentor, so I would suggest that you still look somewhat presentable, but I think you know what to do.”

“Got it,” John said.

After Sherlock, John, and Mycroft changed into black outfits of varying degrees of formality (Mycroft in a three-piece suit despite the summer weather, John in a button up shirt and dress pants, and Sherlock in a black t-shirt and jeans that weren’t nearly as worn as Harry’s), the four went to the center of town together. [They walked in a straight line, shoulder to shoulder through the streets of District 12, Sherlock and Harry in the middle and John and Mycroft beside their siblings.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bHVkt1kCYm0)

The middle of the town square – where the children in the reaping pool normally stood – was bare, and the area bordering that was overflowing with audience members. Since there were only two people in the reaping pool this year, anyone who wasn’t either Harry Watson or Sherlock Holmes was safe, but since no one was allowed to miss the reaping ceremony, they all became part of the audience. For the first time ever, almost everyone – almost all of the eight thousand citizens of District Twelve, more or less – was exempt from the Hunger Games. Everyone, that is, except for Sherlock and Harry.

“Just a forewarning, John,” Mycroft said quietly as they were about to reach the table that held the book that Sherlock and Harry had to give their blood samples to. “Mrs. Hudson won’t be pleased; I’ve never been late to a reaping before.”

“I’m sure we have a good enough reason,” John replied.

Sherlock couldn’t care less if Mrs. Hudson was mad or not. In fact, he didn’t care if President Snow got pissed over the fact that two of his newest tributes showed up to their reaping ceremony in black pants and t-shirts. He didn’t care about anything, really. [All he cared about was getting Harry Watson out of this alive. Because, really, she wasn’t part of this until the Capitol put her in the middle of it. Because, when he thought about it, the Capitol just wanted Sherlock dead – Harry was just caught in the crossfire.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wnrQ5qeWV4)

[He hated thinking like this – it made him feel like he did after Mrs. Watson had told him that his mother had not been murdered but had killed herself, like he was just creating dramas in his head to distract him from the perils of reality – but he felt like this was true. He had been bad mouthing the Capitol since he knew how to talk – it was about time it had come back to bite him in the ass. Some days, depending on how deeply he was sure this was what was actually happening, he thought the Capitol had tried to teach him to obey them since Mycroft was reaped into the Games, and they had tried to teach him again by putting John in the Games eight years later. But Sherlock hadn’t learned – he had planned to take John away from this – and the Capitol wasn’t going to let that happen. They were done trying to teach him; they wanted to get to the source. They were going to kill him – they could’ve just taken him and killed him privately, but they wanted to make sure he suffered, and that everyone around him suffered, so they sentenced him to hell. Harry was just a pawn in their scheme, and, since this was Sherlock’s fault in the first place, he was going to make sure John didn’t lose her.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wnrQ5qeWV4)

[Sherlock only wished they hadn’t done this just after he and John had gotten together – just after he knew what happiness felt like.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wnrQ5qeWV4)

After their fingers were pricked and their blood was recorded in the book, the four of them walked into the center square of District 12. Everyone’s eyes were on them – Sherlock didn’t need to look to know that. He kept his eyes straight ahead, on the glass bowl on the stage that had one singular slip of paper inside – his name. Harry grasped onto Sherlock’s hand, and he glanced over to see that her and John were also holding hands, so he reached over and held Mycroft’s hand, too – showing the Capitol that, despite everything, they were still a family.

They stopped in the direct center of the square, and Mycroft and John hugged both Harry and Sherlock goodbye. John placed his lips on Sherlock’s in an urgent kiss, and then John and Mycroft – District 12’s mentors – walked up onto the stage, where Mrs. Hudson and District 12’s mayor were waiting for them.

Sherlock and Harry held hands for the entire introduction of the ceremony. They glared straight ahead, at their glass bowls, and waited for their names to be called.

And, after what seemed like years, they were.

[“Harriet Catherine Watson.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uJmJqjvKLaU)

Harry let go of Sherlock’s hand, and it was then he realized both of their hands were shaking. Despite this and her ever-paling face, Harry kept her head up, putting a lock of her hair behind her ear, and walked confidently up onto the stage. Now that Sherlock was standing alone in the center square, unsupported by John or Mycroft or Harry standing beside him, he felt like his legs would give out at any moment.

“Now for the boys,” Mrs. Hudson said, just able to hide her sadness, and reached into Sherlock’s glass bowl.

Sherlock’s heart was pounding in his ears as he watched her grab onto his name, pull her hand out of the bowl, and open the slip of paper.

[“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qf5H3Newx3Y) she announced, and Sherlock could just barely hear the murmurs of confusion scatter through the crowd at the sound of his full name – a name that was uttered out loud so rarely that most people were not aware that it existed beyond “Sherlock Holmes”. His feeling of fear now had a decent amount of shame mixed in, feeling as if the Capitol was dragging his entire being through the dirt on its way to throwing him to the dogs. Yet he still kept his chin up as he made his way to the stage, his chest now hurting from the way his heart was pounding inside of him.

* * *

John knew this moment was coming – it had been coming for three months – but it didn’t mean it still didn’t feel like someone had stabbed him through the heart and ripped out his stomach when Sherlock’s name was called. Tears stung at his eyes – they had been ever since Mrs. Hudson called Harry up to the stage, but the feeling he had when Sherlock’s name was read out loud was different.

In the beginning, when John first came home from the Arena, it was so incredibly hard to love Sherlock. It had nothing to do with Sherlock himself as much as it had to do with John. If it wasn’t for Sherlock confessing his undying love and causing the Capitol to blow up their love story to unbelievable heights, when John got home he would’ve probably locked himself in his room and never spoken to anyone ever again. The only thing that kept him in touch with the rest of the world – kept him human – was Sherlock Holmes. At first, it felt like he was just going through the motions of love – kissing when kissed, smiling when smiled at – the only thing that came naturally to him was holding Sherlock’s hand, because it grounded him. Of course John loved Sherlock, but it’s hard to love anyone while you don’t even know yourself, anymore. But John was learning – over the past year, everything was becoming as natural as breathing. Now he couldn’t imagine living without Sherlock’s love – without kissing him every day – without waking up every morning and falling asleep every night by his side.[ He had been ready to let his life begin – he had been ready to be happy with Sherlock – to show Sherlock every bit of what his heart was feeling. He wanted to grow old with Sherlock – get married to Sherlock – maybe even make love to him if they both ever stopped beating around the bush about it. He wanted Sherlock, and, for about nine months, it had seemed like he was going to have him.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-FrnQHK5PY)

[But then, in one moment, the future with Sherlock that was laid out before him was gone. Everything was being taken away from him – from both of them – and all John could do was watch. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-FrnQHK5PY)

* * *

[“Presenting our new tributes from District Twelve: Harriet Watson and William Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson announced, and Sherlock closed his eyes – both of them were now just toys for the Capitol to play with – they weren’t even allowed the freedom of modifying their names to the way they liked them, anymore.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eap9LIJxpkg)

[This wasn’t a reaping ceremony at all. This was their funeral.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eap9LIJxpkg)

He opened his eyes to shake hands with Harry, and saw two hands in the air, three fingers displayed. He glanced down, and found Mr. and Mrs. Watson were attached to those hands. Slowly, the people around them kissed their fingers and held them up in the air, too, and the people around those people did the same. In moments, all of District 12 was saluting Sherlock and Harry. And, as if on cue, Sherlock, Harry, John, and Mycroft did the same.

They were saying goodbye – they were all saying goodbye.

Instead of shaking hands, Sherlock and Harry hugged each other as tightly as they could.

“Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor,” Mrs. Hudson concluded, not even bothering to hide her sadness this time, and the anthem of Panem played as they were ushered into the Justice Building by the Peacekeepers.

They led Sherlock and Harry down a series of hallways, and then into a spare room, locking them inside. Sherlock specifically remembered the tributes being separated during this time, and it took him a second to realize why Sherlock and Harry were grouped together: all of the people who would be coming to say goodbye to the tributes this year would be visiting both of them. But this was the first time Sherlock and Harry had been alone together since the Quarter Quell’s announcement – ever since this mess began.

Harry wiped her eyes – she had been silently crying as they walked down the halls of the Justice Building – and hugged Sherlock again.

Then she stepped away, holding onto his arms, and looked up at him.

“Sherlock... I can’t even...” she started before the fell into sobs again. “This is so fucking stupid...”

And it was then that Sherlock knew that John hadn’t told her of Sherlock’s plans.

But maybe that was for the best.

“I know it is,” Sherlock replied quietly.

He wanted to smile – to try and make Harry feel better – but he couldn’t find it in him.

Before either of them could say anything else, the door opened, and their family poured in, and it was obvious from the looks on their faces that they knew this was goodbye. They knew that their luck had finally run out.

John and Mycroft hung back and let Mr. and Mrs. Watson said their goodbyes; the two mentors would be spending the next eight days saying goodbye every way they knew how. Mrs. Watson was bawling, and Mr. Watson even had tears in his eyes as he hugged Sherlock, and then held both sides of his head in his callused palms.

“You have always been like a son to us, Sherlock. It’s been an honor knowing you.”

“An honor?” Sherlock found himself repeating, sounding like a child.

“John saw something in you the day you met. He was right – you’re brilliant.”

“Thank you, Mr. Watson –”

“And I’m sorry for what I had said before about you and John –”

It was then the door opened, and Sherlock mentally counted everyone in the room. Everyone who mattered to them was here – so who would be –

Everyone turned to the door in a single motion, and found someone who Sherlock never would have expected to be this close in proximity to Harry Watson again: Clara Coleman.

Harry immediately put her guard up, wiping her eyes (as if Clara hadn’t just caught her crying) and crossing her arms, staring at her with a stony expression.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with a sharpness that shot up Sherlock’s spine. There was a moment where he wondered why she was so angry, but then it came back to him: Clara left Harry when she needed her most, and then spoke badly enough about her to her brother to have him come after her.

 “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the Quell’s announcement,” Clara spoke quickly, taking a couple steps toward Harry. “I was a bitch.”

“Yeah, you were,” Harry agreed, and Clara stopped short, wringing her hands.

“I’m sorry – I wanted you to know that before – and that –” she lost the confidence as quickly as it must have come, and then gained enough of it back to close the distance between them and kiss her.

Harry’s arms uncrossed in surprise, and then she was pushing Clara away.

“No,” she spat. “Get out, Clara.”

Watching her, now, Sherlock couldn’t help but think that Harry would be strong enough to live after the Hunger Games if he helped her make it there.

“Harry –”

“Go!” Harry shouted, and Clara Coleman took a few steps back, wide-eyed and hurt, and then raced out the door.

Without really thinking about it, Sherlock glanced at John, to find John staring back at him. In this very room, exactly one year ago, Sherlock had tried to do the same thing Clara did: they had both tried to reveal that they had feelings for the newest Hunger Games tribute. Clara had gotten it out, though, while Sherlock was cut off halfway. If Sherlock had completed his speech – if he had said the words he had been planning on saying – would John have pushed him away, too?

Then, as if reading his mind, John shook his head, just a fraction.

No. He wouldn’t have. In fact – though Sherlock was sure he was just assuming this – maybe John would have kissed Sherlock back, if Sherlock had dared to make that move.

After Mrs. Watson said her goodbyes to her “baby boy”, telling him that Sherlock was “so special,” and Mr. Watson said his goodbyes to his daughter, John stepped forward.

“Harry,” he started, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, white box. “I ordered this from the Capitol, after the Quell was announced...”

Harry opened the box, revealing a silver, ovular locket, the size of her thumb, engraved with the letter H.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

“Open it,” John told her, and she pressed the knob on the top, popping it open like a pocket watch, revealing two photos: on one side, John and their parents, and on the other, Sherlock and Mycroft. “So you’ll always have us.”

Harry threw her arms around her brother, crying again. Then she went and hugged each person in the room, thanking them for being in her locket and, therefore, in her life. As she did this, John stood before Sherlock, and took off the dog tags from around his neck – the first time he had removed it in the past year.

Sherlock, trying to keep himself from crying, rolled his eyes.

“Ugh. Sentiment,” he muttered, and John half smiled, chuckling despite how badly Sherlock knew he also wanted to cry.

“Just take it you little shit,” he said, and Sherlock allowed John to place it in his hand. “Come here,” he murmured, and hugged his boyfriend, just as the Peacekeepers came in to announce their three minutes had passed.

And that was the last time Sherlock Holmes ever saw John’s parents.

* * *

The moment Harry and Sherlock boarded the train, John closed the distance between them and hugged them both. In less than a month, either Sherlock would be alive, Harry would be alive, or they both would be dead, and there was no way John could ever prepare himself for it.

That night, the reapings were broadcast. Everyone watched as five people over the age of fifty, a ten year old boy, a three year old boy, and two people with the same victor sibling were reaped into the Games. There were only four people who were in the regular tribute age-range: Sarah Sawyer and Thomas Birch (who strangely looked very similar to Sherlock) from District 8, and Sherlock and Harry.

John watched Mycroft Holmes as he watched the reapings. Mycroft knew the past victors better than anyone else on that train did; assuming the siblings were anything like past victors, Mycroft would know if there were any wild cards or red flag players to be wary of.

And of course, there was.

The moment Charles Augustus Magnussen, an older man from District 1, was reaped into the Games, Mycroft’s eyes closed tightly, as if he was wincing in pain.

“What?” John asked, and mentally kicked himself as Sherlock and Harry looked up at Mycroft, too. Mycroft opened his eyes, watching the screen, and John didn’t think he had ever looked so tired.

“There were three people I never wanted to see in this year’s Hunger Games,” Mycroft said quietly. “I’m sure you can imagine who the first two were. The third was Charles Augustus Magnussen.” He then turned to look at the three of them, eyes dangerous. “He is a shark, and his brother is as well; the Magnussen brothers are worse than anything you will ever encounter.” He looked at John alone for a moment. “Even Moriarty. They use their power, Hannibal’s power from being a victor, really, to hurt everyone around them. They are manipulators; they can tell your deepest pressure points upon first glance and they will use that to hurt you.”

“We can do that too –” Sherlock muttered to his brother.

“Yes, but if we know something we shouldn’t know we at least have the decency to keep quiet about it, unless, of course, you’re showing off. I know what secrets everyone keeps, I can tell just by looking at them, but I would rather they trust me enough to tell me. I know things about people that could very possibly kill them if it got out, but I stay quiet, while these two would destroy those people with those secrets on a whim and make certain they knew just who it was that ruined their lives. There’s a reason why I haven’t shown you the Fiftieth Hunger Games’ tapes, and that is because Hannibal Lecter Magnussen is a monster. And I’ve met Charles Augustus; he’s exactly the same.”

“What happened during the last Quarter Quell?” Harry asked, voice wavering.

“Hannibal manipulated all of the Careers, but most of all a special needs boy from District Four by the name of William Graham. It was...extremely painful to watch. Hannibal made William feel like he was crazy to try to keep him under his control. William was smart, though; he figured it out and tried to overpower Hannibal when it came down to the final two. But Hannibal...ate his heart.”

“He what?” John asked, thinking, just for a second, that maybe he didn’t hear Mycroft correctly.

“Hannibal ate William’s heart. He tore it right of William’s chest and ate it, blood and all. Hannibal cannibalized the tributes he killed, and I feel that, if given the opportunity, he’d do it again with the first person he reached. These men are absolutely vile, and I advise you to stay away from them, both of them, at all costs.”


	10. Mentor Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a really rough day at work so here's a free chapter to make myself feel better? Is that how that works? Idk please comment that'll make me feel better that's for sure XD

The next day, from the moment they exited the train, the Capitol’s cameras were on them, and there were reporters surrounding the four of them from all sides, shouting questions at them – questions none of them wanted to answer, especially not out loud to paparazzi.

“Mycroft – John – How do you feel about your siblings in the Hunger Games?”

“William – John – How do you feel about being split up after being together for such a short time?”

“Why did you lie to us all about William’s name?”

“William, do you not like your name?”

“Why don’t you like your name?”

“Do you prefer William, Will, or Sherlock?”

“William, what does John call you in bed?”

“What do you think about the other tributes this year?”

“Who do you think will be your biggest threat?”

“William – Harriet – What’s your strategy?”

“Who do you think will win the Quarter Quell?”

In moments, Sherlock’s hands had found John and Mycroft’s, and Sherlock watched as John held onto Harry’s. As much as Sherlock wanted to scream, to yell at them to never call him William again and tell everyone their secrets, he kept his mouth shut – that was the safest thing to do.

[The hand holding, though – that wasn’t safe at all. In fact, the more they did this – the more they presented the four of them as a unit – the more the Capitol would see that they weren’t playing the same Hunger Games they always had been. This was putting a target on their backs so large it covered all four of them: when the other tributes saw this, they would surely try to dismantle the District 12 team as quickly as possible, and when President Snow saw this, John and Mycroft would get into trouble for not playing the Games correctly. But they were done playing – this was war.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EtiepuzMSyE)

Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from being rude to the Capitol citizens – he bit down so hard he could slightly taste blood – and soon enough he and Harry were being led away by Peacekeepers to the remake center, and away from John and Mycroft.

* * *

Once they reached the outside of the remake center, two Peackeepers led Sherlock and Harry inside of the building, but Mycroft gripped onto John’s shoulder to keep him from following them.

“We don’t go in there,” he said quietly, and John looked up at him.

“Where do we go, then?”

“We have to go to the where the interviews are held to meet with Seneca Crane – it’s a mentor meeting.”

John glanced back to where he'd been watching Sherlock and his sister being led off by the Peacekeepers to go meet their prep teams, found that they were nowhere to be seen, and then looked back up at Mycroft.

“Okay.”

The Gamemaker’s control room (which Mycroft kept calling the Hunger Games hub), Seneca Crane’s office, and the conference room were located in the same building the interviews with Caesar Flickerman always took place in – just on the upper floors, completely blocked off to anyone who wasn’t a Gamemaker or a mentor.

“So, what are we doing?” John asked, as he and Mycroft walked through the doors into the main lobby, following the groups of mentors into one of the elevators John hadn’t been allowed to use until now. “What’s this meeting about?”

“Don’t worry; it’s a routine meeting. Mr. Crane is going to give us a general idea of what he has planned for the Games this year.”

“I thought no one knew any of that,” John said, as Mycroft looked into the lobby, calmly stepped forward, pressed elevator’s “close door” button, and held it, watching whoever was coming intently as he did so.

John looked up just in time to see the man from the Quarter Quell’s announcement ceremony – the victor of the last Quarter Quell, Hannibal Lecter Magnussen – approaching as he watched the doors close. If he wasn’t so terrified by seeing Hannibal Magnussen in the flesh, John might’ve laughed. Mycroft would have never gone out of his way to be rude like that to anyone else. He would’ve dealt with the fact that he was sharing an elevator with an unpleasant person, if Hannibal Magnussen was simply an unpleasant person, but now John knew for sure that he wasn’t. Hannibal Magnussen truly needed to be avoided that badly, and that made John’s stomach churn. Hannibal’s brother would be in the Arena with his sister – with Sherlock. And if Mycroft was this uncomfortable around the younger Magnussen brother, what was the elder like?

“No one used to know anything, before,” Mycroft went on as if nothing had happened, tearing John from his thoughts. “We only get an idea of what’s to come now...” Mycroft trailed off, and John looked up to find him staring back at John intently.

As soon as they met eyes, John panicked internally. Mycroft was obviously trying to convey _something_ to him, but he had no idea what. Maybe he did something wrong? Maybe he was in trouble?

“What?” John asked innocently, and all Mycroft did in return was widen his eyes, staring at him even more intently, if that was possible.

Yep, John was definitely in trouble.

But then something completely different occurred to him.

“Wait – so you knew about the fog?” he asked, too loudly. He suddenly remembered there were other mentors in the elevator, and they were now all staring at him.

“I did not. Seneca only gives us the bare minimum. I had no idea about the gas until they filled the Arena with it.” The elevator doors opened, and John bit his tongue to keep from replying as the other mentors filed out. He was about to follow them, but then Mycroft touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry, John. If I could have, I would have tried to stop them from using it.”

“I know.” John replied, and then they too left the elevator.

Mycroft led John to a room that contained a large screen, and something that looked like bleachers with lush leather seats as opposed to metal benches.

John half expected to have to sit up front, but then Mycroft began to lead him up the stairs in the center aisle, toward the back of the room. As they went, John noticed that, after the first two rows of seats, there were numbers on the back of each chair – the third row had two seats marked with the number 1 and two seats marked with a number 2 on one side, and two seats marked with the number 3 and two seats marked with a number 4 on the other. John looked further up and saw that each seat had a number on it, in groups of 2, all the way up to number 12 – four chairs on one side, four on the other. As John saw mentors he recognized from the Victory Tour sitting down, he realized the numbers were to group the Districts, and there were two seats to make sure that both mentors from each District (if the District had two mentors) could sit together. When John and Mycroft got to of District 12’s chairs – grouped into the far upper corner of the room, John noticed something else – something he only could’ve only noticed due to all of the time he had spent with Sherlock: only one chair – the one closest to the wall, had a dip in the seat, to show someone had sat in it before. Mycroft sat in that chair, leaving the chair that looked as if no one had sat in it for seventy-five years for John, and it hit John again that he was the second-ever victor from District 12. He slowly sat down next to Mycroft, feeling the stiff springs and furniture stuffing compress under his weight.

“Looks like we’ve inspired a trend,” Mycroft said quietly, looking around.

That morning, Mycroft and John had exited their respective rooms to find that both of them had had the same idea: wear black, just like they had for the reaping ceremony. John had made a half-hearted joke that one of them should go back and change, but they never did. Now, looking around, John found eighteen other black outfits, and it took a moment for him to see the trend: the people in black were the mentors who had a sibling going into the Arena. At first, John was confused as to why he only saw one black suit in District 2’s and District 11’s group of chairs, but he quickly remembered that District 11’s tributes shared the same sibling (William Smallwood), and District 2’s male tribute was James Sholto, the older brother of Cal Sholto, who had died a few years after he was crowned victor. The only mentor who was there and had a sibling as a tribute but wasn’t wearing black out of respect for their sibling was, of course, Hannibal Magnussen, who instead wore a plaid suit so ugly that John wanted to set it on fire the moment he laid eyes on it.

“They must’ve got the idea from the reaping,” John whispered back. He did another quick headcount – he got eighteen again. Someone was missing –

“Where’s –?” Mycroft muttered as if he had read John’s mind, sitting up in his chair, searching the room for someone. “– Ah.” John followed Mycroft’s gaze, finding Louise Neal striding into the room in a black dress with matching heels, head held high. “There she is.” John watched her climb up the steps and go into District 9’s row of chairs, and when she sat down in the chair next to the aisle seat he could’ve sworn he saw her wipe her eyes.

Of course she would be crying – her three year old brother, Archie, was a tribute in the Hunger Games. Her three year old brother just left her side to get prepped – to get plucked and shaved and washed and scrubbed until his skin was raw. John shivered at the thought. He had barely survived it without crying out in pain – how the hell would Archie get through it?

By the time Seneca Crane entered the room, everyone had sat down. For the first time in Hunger Games history, all twenty-four of the mentor’s seats were filled. John was just about to ask what the empty seats in front were for, but then he saw twelve more people file into the room and take the empty seats for their own: apparently the rest of the Gamemakers were also privy to this meeting.

“Hello, everyone, and welcome to another Hunger Games! First off,” Seneca said, and pointed up to John. “Let’s welcome our newest mentor: John Watson.”

Suddenly everyone’s eyes were on him – including Hannibal Magnussen’s – and some people were clapping, and some were waving or calling brief greetings to him, and some people (like Hannibal) were merely staring. John felt the heat rise in his face, shyly waving at Louise, who was clapping for him.

“It’s good to have someone to sit next to,” Mycroft leaned over and muttered once everyone turned from him, and suddenly John thought back to what Sherlock had said the last time Mycroft said something was “good”: _“That’s his nice way of saying it’s really weird for him.”_

Being there was really weird for John, too.

* * *

Sherlock hated absolutely everything in the entire world at this point – not even John’s smile could wipe the scowl from his face. His new prep team was John’s old prep team, which meant he had to deal with Octavia, which he wasn’t pleased about. The second thing that sent his mood into a downward spiral was the fact that the moment he was put into a little room he was stripped down naked. Octavia (of course) made a comment about his genitalia and how much John probably enjoyed it, and then they hosed him down and scrubbed him until his body was as red as his face. He was so close – _so close_ – to shouting that he and John had never had sex – they hadn’t even seen each other completely naked – so they could all shut up about it, already. The only thing that kept his mouth shut was that they, thankfully, were still calling him Sherlock. Really, that was the only thing that was saving them from his rage as they scrubbed and waxed and shaved and plucked and trimmed and hosed and scrubbed and adjusted and hosed him down for the third time and never shut up about stupid things Sherlock couldn’t care less about.

After fifteen eternities (or so it felt), they were finally done and they left him naked to wait for Cinna. The moment they stopped touching him the robe that he had been clinging desperately to was back on his body, even though he knew from what John had told him that he would be taking it right back off again. On any other day, at any other time, he wouldn’t have cared a bit about being stripped naked and put under the eyes of someone who wasn’t John or Mycroft. In fact, there were countless summer days where Sherlock spent the day with nothing but a sheet wrapped around him when he didn’t feel like showering, and if Mycroft ever stepped on the edge to piss Sherlock off he would just walk away with the sheet still under Mycroft’s foot (whenever John was around, though, Sherlock only threatened to do so, which Mycroft knew wasn’t a bluff). But today – here – he would’ve given anything to have a pair of pants. The Capitol had no right to do this to him – first off to send him here and into their Arena, but to also strip him of everything he was, making sure his dignity was torn to shreds. First they took his name, and now they put his body – his body that he could not and would not change – under a microscope, and made rude comments about his relationship with John, which they had no right to say. They had no right to do any of this.

But they did, and Sherlock knew that, deep down. [Because they were the Capitol, and that’s what the Capitol does – take and take and strip you down until there was absolutely nothing left.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uF_rr7URFBg)

And then, they would watch.

* * *

“Forgive me for earlier, in the elevator,” Mycroft said in a whisper once the meeting was over, as the other mentors stood up and stretched, conversed with each other, or made their way to the exit.

“What?” John asked, confused, too focused on what he had just heard to remember what Mycroft was referring to.

“Non-verbal communication normally works with Sherlock,” Mycroft explained, and that was able to jog John’s memory.

“Oh – it’s fine. What were you trying to tell me, though?” John asked, Mycroft raised his chin, looking down at Seneca Crane.

“Hold on,” he murmured, and John looked along with him to watch as Hannibal Lecter Magnussen approach Seneca, shaking hands like old friends. Once they started talking, sure there was no way Seneca Crane in the front of the room could hear them, Mycroft then leaned closer to John and lowered his voice, so quiet that John had to lean closer to Mycroft in order to hear him.

“I might have very subtly convinced the Gamemakers to allow the mentors to be given an idea as to what their tributes would be up against,” Mycroft revealed.

“You convinced the Gamemakers to let the mentors in on what they’re doing?” John asked, a little too loudly, and Mycroft instantly shushed him.

“Yes, I did, but only a few people know about this, and none of them are the Gamemakers, so you must keep it to yourself.”

John nodded silently, and then he whispered the question: “How did you do it? Why?”

“A few conversations with drunken Gamemakers at banquets made their way back to Seneca Crane. I hinted that it could really help the mentors and make the Games more interesting, and they agreed whole-heartedly. By the next day they couldn’t remember much, like who they had talked to, but the idea was in their head. After three years of doing this, enough people went to Seneca with ‘an idea they had’ or ‘something they were thinking about’, and finally Seneca agreed. We _are_ mentors, after all. We need to know what the tributes are going to face so that we can help them in their preparations.”

However, John wasn’t sure how good of a thing this was. Of course he wanted to help Harry and Sherlock better prepare for the Games, but this meant that _he_ had an idea of what was coming, as well.

And he didn’t want to think about that for too long.

John’s non-prosthetic leg had been bouncing in nervousness since Seneca announced what this year’s theme would be: family matters. The Gamemakers would be drawing inspiration from the mentors’ past Hunger Games experiences for this year, and John could tell from the way Seneca was talking about it that they were going to milk the sibling thing for everything was worth. John thought of all the horrors the past Games entailed – fire bombs, poisoned water, plants that could kill you with a single touch, mutant apes three times the size of the average person, the fear gas – and John’s stomach plummeted to his shoes. John had glanced over at Mycroft at one point while Seneca was going on to find him gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white.

“So now what?” John asked, after a moment.

“Now we go up to the penthouse of the training center – I scheduled a little support group with the rest of the mentors in our situation.”

“Did you invite Hannibal?” John asked before he realized what he was saying, and Mycroft chuckled.

“Of course not,” he replied.

“Okay. Good.”

The second meeting was far less formal – it was held at the dining room table on District 12’s floor of the training center. Mycroft had requested snacks from the Avoxes, but even though John was starving he couldn’t force it down. No one could – their families were going to die. It even felt like a funeral, considering everyone was wearing black.

Mycroft – natural leader that he was – was the first to stand up and speak.

“I’d ask how everyone is, but I feel we already know the answer to that. This is mostly for John’s benefit, but before we begin I’d like for us all to go around and introduce ourselves. I’ll start: My name is Mycroft Holmes, I’m from District Twelve, and my younger brother Sherlock will be in the Arena this year.”

He looked to his right, where Dean Bainbridge from District 4, introduced himself and reminded everyone that his older brother, Steven, would be in the Arena. The next man, who wasn’t that much older than John, stood up. Everything about him screamed charming and charisma and confidence – John would think this man made a mistake finding himself here, but then he noticed movements in his right leg John knew all too well from maneuvering his left one the same way.

“Hi, everyone, my name is Alexander Waters, I’m from District Four and I won the sixty-eighth Hunger Games, and my older sister Julia is in the Games this year.” Alexander then gestured to at the elderly woman sitting beside him, who John knew which District she was from without even being told. “And this is Victoria Carter – she’s from District Six and she won the twenty-sixth Games, and her older brother Bradley got reaped this year.”

At the sound of her brother’s name, Victoria looked up at Alexander, aghast, as if she was hearing the news for the first time. In moments, Alexander had sat down, put his hand on her shoulder, and started muttering comforting words that John couldn’t quite hear, as the next elderly woman sitting next to Victoria – who John recognized as Nana, spoke.

“Surely, you all know who I am,” she began, trying to smile, and a few people muttered greetings to her. “My little Abbie is in the Games, this year.”

John remembered Abigail Reeves’ reaping – she, at seventy-nine years old, volunteered for one of the younger girls.

And then, for a few people, it was just faces and names:

“My name is Charolette Lee, I am from District Five, and my younger brother, Joseph, is in the Games.”

“I’m Seamus Ashton, my little sister May’s in the Games, and I’m also from District Five.”

“My name is Anthony Heaney, I’m from District Three, and my older sister, Robin, was reaped.”

The next man, William Smallwood, was about five years older than Anthony, and as soon as he said that he was from District 11, there was a pang of sorrow in John’s chest: his younger siblings, Elizabeth and Jonathan, were both going into the Arena. After him, he introduced another woman who was obviously high on Morphling, Clara Knapp from District 6, whose older sister, Grace, was going into the Arena.

The next person John recognized from District 2: thirty-year-old Antonia Blake. She leaned back in her chair, watching Mycroft with her arms crossed, black and blue hair draped over her face. When it got to be her turn, she looked at John.

“Antonia Blake. District Two.” Then, without moving her head, her eyes flicked back up at Mycroft. “Aurora’s going in.”

“I’m so sorry, Antonia,” Mycroft said, and she shrugged in a way that told John she was merely pretending to be indifferent, and then looked past the empty chair beside her and at the man who was about her age in the seat after that.

“I’m Raz, I’m from District Seven, and my brother Will’s in the Games.” Raz glanced at Mycroft. “I’m sorry about Sherlock,” he added, awkwardly.

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied, and then it was on to the next person.

“My name is James Hewlett; I am from District One,” said a man who looked about the same age as Hannibal Magnussen. “And my younger sister, Helen Hewlett, is in the Games this year,” he announced, and he, like so many others, sounded like he still couldn’t believe it.

“My name is Alan Patterson, I’m from District Ten, and my sister Margaret is in the Games.”

“My name’s Paul Sawyer, I’m from District Eight, and my sister Sarah was reaped into the Games.”

“I’m Edward Birch, I’m also from District Eight, and my little brother Thomas is in the Games.”

“My name’s Rob Wilkes, I’m from District Three, and my brother Sebastian’s in the Games.”

The next woman stood up and spoke with her hands, and Alan Patterson translated for her: her name was Clover Frankland, she was from District 10, and her brother Robert was in the Games. She then looked up at Mycroft, and John looked at Mycroft to find him making gestures similar to hers. It took John a second, but then he remembered who exactly she was from watching her in her Games: the person standing on the podium next to her committed suicide by stepping off of their pressure plate just before the Games started, making it look like they had just timed themselves incorrectly. Clover and a few others lost their hearing, but the only one who didn’t completely break down in panic was Clover; instead she spent her Hunger Games learning how to deal with her sudden loss of hearing. When it came down to the final two, she was attacked from behind, but she was able to defeat them. Upon returning to the Capitol, it became clear that her hearing loss couldn't be reversed, leaving her permanently deaf. John could at least partially sympathize, since the Capitol couldn’t save his injured leg last year, when he returned from his Arena.

The next girl spoke as Clover sat down:

“My name’s Amanda Hawkins, I’m from District Nine, and my sister Janine is in the Games.”

Next came Louise:

“My name is Louise Neal, I’m also from District Nine, and...” tears welled up in her eyes. “I think everyone knows which one’s mine.”

Then it was John’s turn. He had no idea where to look, so he just looked at the untouched food as he spoke:

“My name is John Watson, I’m from District Twelve, and my little sister Harry, and my boyfriend, Sherlock, are in the Games.”

“Thank you, everyone,” Mycroft said, after a moment. “You may have noticed someone isn’t here.” He gesturing to the empty seat on the opposite side of the table. “I did not invite Hannibal Lecter Magnussen today, and the reason why is simple: I believe he is dangerous, and no matter what we do, his thinking cannot be modified. I do not believe he can understand the weight this bears on all of us, and so, for everyone’s safety, I made sure he had no idea we were going to meet. Also, in the interest of safety, if his brother, Charles Augustus, is killed, I ask that whoever’s sibling kills him comes to find me immediately; we all know that Hannibal will be seeking revenge.”

Everyone nodded, and Mycroft continued:

“But we are better than that; we’re better than to seek revenge on our friends for something we have no control over. None of this bears fault onto any of us – our brothers and sisters are merely pawns, and I don’t think any of us want anyone to lose the Hunger Games this year, because then someone in this room will lose a family member, someone that they love. But that’s not on us, and it’s not on them. We all know who to blame. I have a theory that this Quarter Quell is to pit us against each other, and maybe it would have, if we were all like Hannibal Lecter Magnussen. Fortunately, we are not. We know how to do something he doesn’t know how to do, and that is to understand, and to forgive.

“I have been forgiving over these past few months; the moment this year’s Quell was announced I was in an anger so deep it rotted me, and I hated it. I forgave a lot of people for their part in this play. I forgave my parents for giving birth to Sherlock; they didn’t know what was to become of him. I forgave the little girl who carried the box of cards; she doesn’t understand these Games just yet. I forgave myself for winning the Games in the first place; I had no idea what I would be putting my brother through, for at the time I had just wanted to return home to protect him. I had no idea I would be damning him to this hell in the process. There are a few people who I cannot forgive, and I feel we all know who they are.”

John remembered Seneca’s excitement during the mentor meeting, and suddenly he felt sick enough to vomit.

“But they are not in this room, and we are,” Mycroft went on. “And, to avoid conflict and anger and behavior that would stir itself up in our grief, I feel we should forgive each other, and all of our siblings, for what they are about to do. If anyone thinks that we or our siblings should be blamed for what the Capitol is forcing them to do, or if anyone thinks they will not be able to control themselves in the face of losing their family, I invite you to leave.”

Mycroft paused, and John glanced around the table. No one moved, apart from Alan, who was interpreting for Clover. When it was obvious no one was leaving, he finished his speech:

“The rest of this meeting is for all of us to converse and to comfort and to be together during this extremely difficult and unjust time, but it is also for John, our most recently added mentor, to meet all of you,” he said. “I feel it is important that we support each other, so I would like everyone to speak to everyone else at least once. And then, we will go to the Centre Square for the Chariots. Thank you.”


	11. The Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna post this last night but I had to be into work at 6:00 am the next morning and I had a panic attack to deal with so basically hello here's ur chapter now. XD

The first person to approach John was Alexander Waters, from District 4.

“Hello, John,” he said, shaking his hand. “I wanted to welcome you to the club.”

“Club?” John asked, and Alexander patted his right thigh. “Oh, right.”

So that was why Mycroft was so disappointed when he learned that Alexander wasn’t going to be attending John’s speech in District 4; he had wanted John to meet someone who had also lost his leg to the Hunger Games Arena. He had wanted to give John someone he could talk to about the one thing neither Mycroft nor Sherlock could empathize with. He had wanted to show John that it was possible to win the Games, lose your leg, and not totally fall to pieces. He had wanted to give John hope.

“What are you – Upper? Lower?” Alexander asked, breaking John from his thoughts.

“Lower – just under the knee. You?”

“I’m upper.”

“Oh – oh, right!” John said, suddenly remembering Alexander’s Arena. “I remember you – Mycroft had us all watch a bunch of past Games in preparation for – you were trying to save one of the twelve-year-olds and your leg got trapped under a falling boulder. You cut off your own leg –”

“Yeah, still not sure if that was the best way to go about it,” Alexander admitted. “But it worked, and I’m still here, so life’s looking up.”

“I remember watching you at home, too – I was twelve then – my parents refused to let me watch that bit once you decided what to do, but the kids at school – I mean, the ones who _were_ allowed to watch it – they wouldn’t shut up about you for almost a year after you won – you were a legend in District Twelve,” John explained.

“Probably not as much as you and Mycroft were – are. That Jim Moriarty, man...” Alexander trailed off, puffing out his cheeks and exhaling.

“Didn’t you hear? His name’s Richard Brook.” For some reason, even now, John was unable to say Jim Moriarty’s name out loud, but he _was_ able to say Richard Brook’s name aloud. Maybe it was because, in John’s head, Richard Brook never existed.

Alexander laughed, bringing John back from his thoughts.

“No way – Moriarty was real, like you said. People have been pretty split on the whole thing ever since you won. All the mentors believe the Jim Moriarty we saw was who he really was, and the whole ‘Richard Brook’ thing was just a way to make the Capitol look innocent. I mean, sure, his birth certificate might say Brook, but we all know who he really was inside – there was no mistake about that, and no mental illness like they’re saying he had. Anyway, I wanted you to know that if you need anything at all, come find me. We gotta stick together, right? You and I together make an entire set of legs, you know.”

He winked at John, and John found himself smiling.

“Yeah, thank you,” John said, and then glanced around the people in the room, trying to think of any questions for Alexander – who to look out for, who was most likely to befriend him – but then his eyes landed on Clover Frankland, who was using her hands to talk to Louise and Amanda Hawkins.

“Don’t be intimidated by Clover; she’s lovely,” Alexander said, obviously following John’s gaze. “You’re gonna have to learn to sign, though; we all know how to.”

“Sign? You mean that thing they’re doing with their hands?” John asked.

“Yeah – when she learned that her ability to hear was permanently lost, she was distraught and I mean, I think all of us felt that way, coming out of the Arena to learn that a part of you wasn’t able to be saved. But we all toughed it out, and even though Clover had a lot more work to do, she did, too. By the time the Victory Tour came around, it came out that she had developed a whole language with her hands, and everyone in District Ten was using it. Now all the mentors know how to sign, as well.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Yeah – first person with a disability to win the Hunger Games. I mean, I know that a few of us are missing eyes and limbs and other things, but she was pretty much _completely_ deaf for the entire time she was in the Arena and she won the Games. _She’s_ the real legend.”

“Tell me about it,” John agreed, and then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head and found Mycroft. “Hey.”

“Hello, boys – how are you?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” John replied.

“Couldn’t be better,” Alexander said.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I stole John, then? There’s a lot of other people for him to meet.”

“No problem,” Alexander replied. “See you around, John,” he said, shaking John’s hand.

“Yeah – thanks.”

John preferred it when Mycroft led the conversations of who John was talking to – it was like he was taking a load off of John’s shoulders that John didn’t even knew he had until now. Ever since the end of his Hunger Games, casual conversation was difficult – he didn’t know how to open, how to close without seeming rude – it was as if he was turning into Sherlock. Mycroft was good at conversation, though – he drifted in and out and on to other people as naturally as breathing. John wondered if he used to be like that, and if he could ever get back to a point where he could converse normally.

At last, they reached Louise, Amanda, and Clover.

“Hey,” Louise said, hugging Mycroft and John in turn.

“How are you feeling?” John asked, and Louise shrugged as Amanda translated for Clover.

“Not so great?” she replied, though it came out like a question.

“I’m so sorry, Louise,” Mycroft said, and John nodded in agreement.

“Not much we can do,” Louise said.

“So what are you thinking, Mycroft?” Amanda asked. “About what Crane said?”

“They’re obviously going to go as far as they can with the fact that everyone in the Arena is related to a victor,” he replied, acting as if he had been asked questions like this many times before – and he probably had. “Which means it could entail anything, or everything. Similar Arenas, the same obstacles, the same weapons – they could even manipulate things to reenact past Games.”

“How could they do that?” John asked. “Manipulate things to recreate the past?”

“They could ensure that something got to Harriet’s leg, or place the tribute most likely to commit suicide next to Robert Frankland, or have an area with freezing temperatures set aside to lead Sherlock into. The possibilities are endless, honestly.”

“What if no one played?” Louise asked, suddenly, her eyes welling with tears as she looked up at Mycroft. “What if, when the countdown ends and the Games begin, no one moved?”

“They’d blow them up with the bombs under the pedestals,” Amanda replied before Mycroft could, but Mycroft was watching Clover signing something, and he translated for John:

“It wouldn’t matter, either way. Magnussen would play, and all it takes is one person to kill another.”

* * *

Cinna really outdid himself this year, Sherlock thought. He had managed to find a way to combine the District’s export, mining and coal, with Sherlock and John’s star-crossed-lovers story, and put it all into one outfit.

He was in black – it was supposed to represent the coal, but Sherlock, his prep team, and Mrs. Hudson found it more representative of the rebellious black outfits the two tributes attended their reaping ceremony in, and Cinna didn’t do much to convince anyone of otherwise. The cuff of Sherlock’s right sleeve contained a hidden button that, when pressed, would cause synthetic violet fire to burst from his cape – one step up from last year’s flames with John. Sherlock boiled it all down to budget – they didn’t have enough to make this fire last year, but since District 12 won the last year’s Hunger Games, they had enough money to experiment with false flames. Of course, this did not stop Sherlock from making Cinna cross-his-heart promise that the fire wasn’t dangerous.

The moment he caught sight of Harry Watson arriving the stables, just before the opening ceremony, Sherlock dashed up to her and threw his arms around her.

“Are you alright?” he asked the moment he let go of her.

“I’m okay – have you seen John or Mycroft?” she asked.

“No – we’ll meet up with them after.”

“Right – what about –”

“What the hell?” Sherlock muttered, cutting Harry off mid-sentence, and she turned around to look at what had caught Sherlock’s attention: Charles Augustus Magnussen, leaning close to one of the horse trainers, whispering in her ear.

“Is that Magnussen?” Harry asked.

“It is,” Sherlock whispered back, glancing between the man and Harry.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Harry asked, as they watched him finish speaking with the woman. They then watched her as she took one horse from his pair and exchanged it with another horse from another pair. “Did he just...?”

“I think he just convinced her to exchange those horses’ spots in the lineup,” Sherlock said.

“Are you shitting me? What is he, three?” she asked, and then looked down at her feet, remembering there was an actual three-year-old tribute just a few stalls away.

“He knows the system too well,” Sherlock muttered. “He knows that if he refuses to take part they’ll have to do what he wants, since they can’t exactly hurt him in order to get him to comply.”

“But seriously, the horses? They’re all beautiful,” she said quietly, touching one of their horses’ muzzles.

“He’s just testing the waters,” Sherlock said.

“Testing the waters for what?” Harry asked.

“I dunno – to see how far he can go, maybe?”

Harry sighed, and spoke for both of them:

“I want John.”

The moment the words were spoken, Sherlock put his brain into motion. If this forty-year-old man could convince a horse trainer to letting him do whatever he wanted, then so could they.

“I have an idea,” he said after a few moments, and Harry smiled for the first time in days.

“Hell yeah – there’s my man with the plan,” Harry said. “Can I help?”

“Just stand here and pout,” Sherlock replied. “If you can cry on demand, now would be a good time to do so.”

And with that, Sherlock left her and approached the nearest horse trainer – one who was just a year away from retirement, sick of doing this year after year – the perfect person to try and coax a favor out of.

“Excuse me, but would it be possible if we could see our mentor, John Watson?” he asked as politely as he could muster. The man crossed his arms and sighed.

“Surely, as the brother of a mentor you must know that’s against policy –”

“But his sister – his sister is refusing to go on if she doesn’t see him – it’ll just be for a minute, sir –”

The man glanced at the pouting Harry Watson, sighed again, and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, then grabbed the arm of the nearest Avox, who just happened to be passing by.

“Fetch John Watson from the mentors’ booth, straight away,” he ordered, and then turned back to Sherlock as the Avox walked away.

“Thank you so much –” Sherlock began.

“Just make sure she doesn’t throw a fit,” the man said before turning his back on Sherlock and walking away, muttering something about how the actual toddler was being better-behaved than the older tributes were.

“...Will do,” he mumbled quietly, then turned to Harry and gave her a thumbs-up. John was on his way.

* * *

When an Avox had reached the mentor’s booth and signaled for John to come with him, Mycroft was instantly at his defense. At first he tried to follow, but the Avox caught on and put his arm out to keep Mycroft from coming along with them.

“Did President Snow send you?” he asked, and the Avox shook his head, then pointed in back of them, at the double doors that would open any minute now to release the chariots. Just beyond those doors were the stalls, where the tributes were boarding their chariots, John remembered. If anyone was in there who wanted to see him specifically, it had to be Sherlock or Harry, if not both.

After convincing Mycroft that he was alright on his own, he walked with the Avox down the crowded sidewalk and entered the stables to realize he was completely correct in his assumption. Within seconds, Harry had her arms around him. When she stepped back, he noticed she was donned in a beautiful black high-low dress with her hair done up, only letting a few locks frame her face, and violet makeup outlining her features. It then struck John how adult-like she looked, but before he could say anything Sherlock’s lips was on his, and he was kissing his boyfriend back.

For a moment, the world – the Hunger Games, the smell of hay and the Capitol’s many-scented soaps, the sounds of the commotion around him, all if it – was gone, and all John could feel was Sherlock’s soft, warm mouth and feel his beautifully clean hands holding onto John’s. It was almost therapeutic, but it had to end.

As soon as their lips were apart, their words trampled over one another’s:

“How do I look –”

“How are you doing –?”

They chuckled at how stupid they both sounded, and then Sherlock replied as John looked him over. There was one thing about Sherlock that John always admired, even before John’s Games: he was always, _always_ beautiful. He had seen Sherlock at his most ugly; right out of the shower, just woken up with gravity-defying bedhead, with his mouth stuffed full of food – even when he was passed out from an overdose at fifteen there was still some beauty about him that John was too worried about his health to place or ever want to see again. What the Capitol did to him looked like just that: something that the Capitol did to him. But this wasn’t the Sherlock John knew – this was a warped version of him, as if the Capitol had tried to recreate him from scratch in their own image.

But even the Capitol couldn’t take away his beauty.

“You look fantastic, Sherlock,” John finally said, after Sherlock had quickly described the feelings that John had felt while he was being scrubbed down and turned into the Capitol’s perfect toy, and then John turned to Harry. “And you – I want to cry. You’re beautiful.”

“Oh, don’t,” Harry tried to laugh, but there were tears in her eyes all the same. She put her hand on her chest, over the locket John had given her.

Before any of them could get another word out, a red light shone above the double doors they were to exit through – the tributes were to get to their chariots and in line – immediately. The horse trainers quickly started getting the horses into line – Charles Augustus Magnussen and Helen Hewlett up in front, and Sherlock Holmes and Harry Watson in the back. Sherlock, Harry, and John walked alongside District 12’s chariot as the horse trainers led the horses into line, politely staying out of the way.

“We caught sight of Magnussen,” Sherlock informed John.

“I did too. Well, the other one, at least. Was yours as creepy as mine?”

“No, not really,” Harry replied.

“He convinced one of the horse trainers to switch horses for him,” Sherlock summarized.

“That’s stupid,” John said.

“That’s what we said,” Sherlock assured him. “I think he’s just seeing how much trouble he can cause.”

“You’re staying away from him, right?” John asked.

“Of course we are.”

The light at the top of the doors turned yellow, and the tributes were told to board their chariots. Sherlock and Harry hugged John in turn, and John promised he would see them when they got to the training center.

The two tributes got onto their chariots, and Sherlock, with one look at John’s face, leaned forward to speak with him.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m sorry this is happening,” John whispered as the light turned green, and Sherlock rolled his eyes as the beginning of the line started to move.

“Don’t be – what could you have done differently?” he asked, and before John could give him the first answer that came to his mind – _I could’ve died_ – Sherlock kissed him softly.

And then the movement of the line caught up with them – the horses stepped forward, pulling the chariot behind them, and pulled Sherlock away from John.

Sherlock and Harry turned to watch John as they left, and John waved awkwardly back at them, not knowing what else to do with himself, short of running and ripping them off of the chariots and taking them far, _far_ away from the Games.

But that would get them all killed.

As soon as the doors closed behind them, though, John raced from the stables to the stylists’ viewing box up above the doors, and found Cinna and Connie, standing with their prep teams.

“Room for one more?” John asked.

“John!” Connie exclaimed, surprised.

“What are you doing here?” Cinna asked.

“I thought the view was better on this side,” John replied, sarcastic. “I was summoned by Sherlock and Harry, and I wouldn’t have enough time to make it to the mentor’s box, so now I’m here.”

“Sherlock summoned you to see him off? How romantic!” Octavia exclaimed, and John rolled his eyes.

“Harry did too,” he muttered, too low for her to hear.

“And – oh my goodness look at our District Twelve tributes! Harriet Watson and William Holmes – they look _amazing!”_

John looked over the edge, and found Harry and Sherlock, the only tributes donned in black in the lineup. The crowd went wild at the sight of them, cheering and shouting and throwing roses and irises (that were probably only sold because of Sherlock’s appearance) in their direction.

And then John heard what the crowd was cheering, their voices unified in shouts so loud that John’s ears began to hurt:

_“JOHN-LOCK! JOHN-LOCK! JOHN-LOCK!”_

John’s heart sank. It wasn’t just Johnlock – Harry was there, too. Everyone seemed to be forgetting that – Harry was there; she had been this whole time. Sure, Sherlock was the one they knew, and Sherlock was the one that they all assumed was having sex with John every night, but didn’t they know there were different kinds of love? Didn’t they know that John loved his sister as much as he did Sherlock, only in different ways?

Sherlock must’ve been thinking the same thing – feeling the same anger that John was feeling – for he caught an iris out of the air, put it behind Harry’s ear, held her hand, and raised their arms together above their heads.

In the same instant, a lilac fire set them aflame. John immediately took a step forward, and Cinna caught him by the shoulder.

“That’s not real, is it?!”

“Of course not,” Cinna replied. “It’s all synthetic.”

And John looked back at Sherlock and Harry, their hands still joined in the air, lit by the fire that was the exact same shade as the irises being thrown at them – the irises of their meadow – and hated the Capitol so much in that moment. They were taking everything from them – their lives, their happiest memories, their names, the light from their eyes...

But their fire remained, and the synthetic fire helped John finally see that clearly. They were still Sherlock and Harry, and nothing the Capitol said or did could change that.

He just wished that the Capitol wasn’t _actively trying_ to change that.


	12. Too Young

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't completed a chapter but I'm stuck so here you go XD

The night after the opening ceremony, John found himself awake at three in the morning, unable to go back to sleep. Not wanting to lie in bed for any longer, John untangled himself from Sherlock, left a small note on where to find him if he were to wake up, and made his way to the sitting room.

He expected to be the only one awake apart from the Avoxes, but then he saw Mycroft Holmes sitting on the sofa, staring at a muted television screen.

“Mycroft?” John called quietly as he entered the room.

Mycroft’s hand immediately flew to the remote, but then he saw who it was.

“John,” he said, only slightly relieved. “Is Sherlock with you?”

“He’s asleep,” John replied, and Mycroft chuckled.

“For once.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, and then nodded to the television. “What are you watching?”

“Hannibal Magnussen’s Hunger Games. Come.” He patted the sofa cushion next to him. “Sit.”

John wanted to decline, say that he was just coming out for something simple, like a glass of water, and planned on going back to sleep, but his curiosity won out, and he sat next to Mycroft, and he unmuted the television. John looked up at the screen and found a younger version of Hannibal – still with the same hairstyle, John noticed – speaking to a curly-haired bespectacled boy who was, at the time, crying and constantly waving his hands.

“Is that Will Graham?” John asked, and Mycroft nodded.

“You joined us a very difficult time for William – he thinks he’s killed a few of the tributes. He’s good natured, like you – he didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“How can he think he did?” John asked. “How can he not know?”

“William suffered from an advanced form of encephalitis – the stress of the Games heightened his symptoms – he often hallucinated and lost large pieces of time to his own head. It’s like having to ingest your fog on a daily basis.”

“Jesus,” John murmured, trying to imagine what that could be like. The fog had fucked with his head so much he still couldn’t remember how many times he had stabbed Philip Anderson through his own eyes, as opposed to remembering what he had seen during the recap. But living like that all the time? That would drive anyone irreversibly insane.

“He felt like he could trust Hannibal with informing him what he missed, but he was wrong,” Mycroft explained.

“...What’s he doing with his hands?” John asked, after a moment. He had seen a few people back in Twelve do something similar – he had seen _Sherlock_ do something similar, in fact – but he had never thought to ask or question it.

“He was also believed to be autistic – when he became overwhelmed or nervous he found that providing himself with self-stimulation calmed him down, somewhat. Most self-stimulation manifests itself in repetitive motions, and, for William, those repetitive motions are hand-flapping, which is what he’s doing right now.”

“How’d they get that diagnosis?” John asked. He had heard the term before, but for a fact that no one in the Districts had any way to officially give that kind of verdict.

“The Capitol’s medical professionals gave Will a proper behavior analysis once the Capitol’s viewers realized that William was different.”

John nodded, and then was quiet for a moment.

“Was Will going to win?” he asked.

“He was; William was extremely intelligent, and Hannibal knew that he was. He lied to William like this to keep him under his thumb; if William thought he was insane he wouldn’t have to worry about William outsmarting him. Then, when everyone else was gone, it would be an easy win. What he didn’t know, of course, was that William’s also a brilliant actor.”

“Is he faking now?” John asked.

“No; he’ll start that tomorrow, when he finds Hannibal killing and eating tributes. Of course, the encephalitis and the autism did not go away; he still hallucinated and lost bits of time and got overwhelmed, but this time he knew who he was, so he was able to act for Hannibal, as opposed to believing the lies he was feeding him.”

John watched the screen as this happened – Will snuck after Hannibal and watched him rip a twelve-year-old girl named Abigail Hobbs apart with his teeth and eat her alive. Will was horrified, and definitely vomited a few times off-camera, but by the time Hannibal made it back to the Careers’ camp, Will was back to normal, or as normal as Will could have been, considering. He informed Hannibal that he seemed to lose a few hours, and Hannibal informed him that he had just returned from killing a tribute, and Hannibal had just helped him clean up. Just as before, Will panicked, but this time John knew that he was faking.

After another day of Hannibal lying to Will and Will acting for Hannibal, it came down to the final two. This was when Will let his layers fall away, and showed Hannibal who he really was – an intelligent thirteen-year-old with thoughts and words beyond his years which were spoken aloud in a voice that cracked at the thought of puberty. His eyes saw everything, but couldn’t look Hannibal in the face; his hands shook, yet he disguised it behind his flapping. John couldn’t help but find Will to be beautiful in his moment of greatness – his moment of outsmarting Hannibal Lecter Magnussen. Will had that same unorthodox beauty that Sherlock had; that beauty that was impossible to place; he was beautiful like how finding the irises was beautiful – beautiful like how the idea of freedom was beautiful.

John knew the ending to the story, but he still wanted Will to win, and when it finally came down to it, John could not watch Will Graham die. His eyes snapped shut, and he heard Will’s screams as Hannibal tore through his flesh with his teeth and ate his beating heart.

“I did not have a mentor,” Mycroft reminded John, and he opened his eyes to find Hannibal boarding the hovercraft to return home, his mouth and clothes stained red with Will’s blood. “I was left with a collection of recordings from each Hunger Games before mine – sixty-five disks, and I watched all of them, religiously. When I got to this one, I knew that a record would be set for the youngest victor, but I was so sure that William would’ve won. I imagined meeting him, congratulating him on his win. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking; I’m still not sure if it was or not. I had never been so distraught as I was when I watched Hannibal Magnussen win, and I’m sure we both know why; I’m sure we both saw the similarities between William Graham and Sherlock. Of course, there are now instances that overpower that sadness, but I will never forget that night. There are two people I think of in everything I do, and that is Sherlock Holmes, and William Graham.”

“You’re afraid of him – of Hannibal,” John said, looking at Mycroft.

“Of course I am. You’ve seen what he can do.” They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the aftermath of Hannibal’s Games, and then Mycroft spoke again. “Did you know the Magnussen brothers had a sister?” he asked.

“They did?”                                                                  

“They did, indeed,” Mycroft replied. “Her name was Mischa. She disappeared the night before her first reaping ceremony; the year after Hannibal won. No one knows what happened to her, but I think I have a good idea.”

“Hannibal?” John wondered aloud, and Mycroft nodded.

“I believe he took her out of District One and devoured her, just as he did William Graham.”

“Jesus Christ,” John murmured to himself, and then looked up at Mycroft. “Do you think history will repeat itself? That a Magnussen will win the Games again?” John asked quietly, not wanting to know the answer.

Mycroft stared straight ahead, at Hannibal’s grinning face during the victor’s interview, and he spoke so quietly John almost didn’t catch it at first, but then he did, and his heart hurt at the sound of it:

“Yes.”

* * *

Sherlock woke up the next morning incredibly uneasy – more uneasy than he should’ve been for the morning of the first day of group training. The morning was normal – or, as normal as it could be considering where they were. The four ate breakfast together and Sherlock and John went through their morning routines together, the whole time Sherlock trying to figure out why the hell he was so nervous.

It was only when it was time to go down to the training room did the knot in Sherlock’s stomach made sense, and it was at the same time that John realized that something was wrong.

The elevator doors opened, and Sherlock and Harry stepped forward to enter it.

“Sherlock?” John called, and Sherlock turned around to see John waving him back. “Hang back.”

“John?” Harry asked.

“Just go, Harry – Sherlock will be right behind you,” John promised, and Harry shrugged and entered the elevator, letting the doors close behind her.

Once the doors were closed, John rounded to Sherlock.

“Okay, Sherlock. What’s going on?” he asked. “You’ve barely said two words to me all morning.”

“Isn’t that normal for me?” Sherlock asked.

“Not lately, it isn’t,” John replied, crossing his arms. “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock tried to assure him. “It’s stupid –”

“I don’t care. Sherlock, I need to know what’s going on so I can help you.”

“As my mentor or as my boyfriend?” Sherlock asked, and John shrugged in reply.

“Take your pick.”

Sherlock sighed, frustrated. He hated admitting this sort of thing out loud, especially when it was something as trivial as –

“I don’t like elevators,” Sherlock muttered, and John leaned forward.

“What was that?”

“I don’t. Like. Elevators. They make me sick,” he admitted, just a pinch louder.

“Sick? You mean they make you nauseous?”

“I told you it was stupid.”

“And I told you I don’t care. What do you think can be done about it?” John asked. “How do you think we can avoid using it?”

“The Avoxes never use the elevators,” Sherlock told him quietly, and John caught up with him in seconds.

“Excuse me,” he called to an Avox who was scrubbing down the dining room table. She immediately stood up straight, waiting for her demand. “Sherlock doesn’t like the elevators – is there a staircase we could use to get to the training room?”

At first the woman seemed surprised, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if that was because John had asked her a question instead of barking an order, or the fact that he had mentioned a staircase that only the Avoxes and Capitol Peacekeepers knew about. Once she got over the initial shock, she nodded, and led them to one of the many panels in the wall; the only difference was that this one was removable. She opened the panel like a door, which revealed a metal door. She pulled that one open, too, revealing a grey cement floor and grey brick walls, with a yellow “12” painted on the wall. Sherlock thought it was just a room, until a male Avox came around the corner and passed them, going into the penthouse.

“This is it?” John asked the woman, and she nodded. John looked at Sherlock. “There’s eleven floors for us to get through. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Anything’s better than that elevator,” Sherlock replied, and so John thanked the Avox and then they too made the descent down to the training center.

“I didn’t know you didn’t like the elevators,” John said conversationally.

“Neither did I,” Sherlock replied. “The ones we have in District Twelve don't go as fast as the ones here do.”

“Yeah – they kind of threw me off, too – I mean, they never made me sick, but...yeah.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said after a moment. “For getting them to show us the stairs.”

“Of course – that’s what boyfriends do, isn’t it?” John asked, and Sherlock smiled in response.

“How’s the uniform?” John asked, after a couple of flights, remembering his old training uniform. Sherlock now donned a similar one: there were big “12”s plastered to his chest and back, and “HOLMES” written in block lettering in between his shoulder blades.

“I’m just thankful it doesn’t say ‘William’.” Sherlock replied. He didn’t mind the jersey and the leggings, really – it was about the same that teachers would have them wear to gym class in school. And it wasn’t like everyone else wouldn’t be wearing the same thing, with their own last names and District numbers written upon them.

“I still can’t believe they did that. I mean – everyone knows you as Sherlock. Even the Capitol knows you as Sherlock.”

“I can certainly still believe it. Humiliate me while they can, you know? It’s a very Capitol thing to do: humiliate us before they kill us.”

John chuckled, humorlessly, and sighed. “I’m gonna miss this – you,” he mumbled, finally.

“Save it – you’ve still got a few more days with me.”

They were almost to their destination when Sherlock realized something.

“They’re probably wondering why I’m late.”

“Yeah – don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” John said, waving him off.

“Don’t tell them I don’t like the elevators,” Sherlock ordered.

“Never dreamed of it,” John promised.

“Here’s us,” Sherlock said as he found the door to the training room.

When John opened it for Sherlock, they came face-to-face with the head trainer – Atala, John had told him – with a crying boy – Archibald Neal – holding her hand.

“Mr. Watson, this better not be what it looks like,” Atala said, glaring at John.

It took a moment for Sherlock to figure out what she was taking about: sex, again. A smile grew across John’s face, and Sherlock knew what was coming.

“Yes, it’s exactly what it looks like. We thought we had time; we obviously didn’t. Won’t happen again,” he lied, keeping direct eye contact.

She looked away first, and turned her attention to Sherlock. She jerked her thumb behind her, at the training room.

“Off you get,” she said, and, after a quick goodbye, John went for the elevators, and Sherlock went to start his training.

He took exactly eleven steps before he stopped, and turned back around.

Archie was practically hiding behind Atala’s leg, one hand clutching onto hers, and the other one holding onto a worn stuffed mouse toy – his favorite toy, Sherlock figured. He vaguely remembered Archie holding the same toy during his reaping ceremony – Louise must’ve told him he could bring one and that would be his tribute token.

This boy was three years old – he was tiny and probably the easiest target to these people, except for maybe the elderly tributes. He couldn’t let this boy spend the last few days of his life hiding and crying – he couldn’t just leave him.

He took a few steps forward, and Atala glared at him.

“Go on, Twelve,” she ordered, but Sherlock continued walking. When he was five steps away from Archie, he kneeled down, getting to his level like Mycroft used to do when he was a child.

“Hi, Archie,” Sherlock said quietly, and Archie peered out from behind Atala’s leg. He wasn’t sure what to say then, but he pressed on. “My name is Sherlock. Would you like to play with me?”

The boy hid behind Atala’s leg, still staring at Sherlock with the one eye that Sherlock could see, mumbling something.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked, and the boy spoke, louder:

“I wan Lou-Lou.”

Lou-Lou – Louise; his sister. Sherlock thought fast.

“I know I’m not Louise but – you know the boy who came in with me? The one who just left? That’s my boyfriend – he’s a friend of Louise’s. And I’ve met Louise. She – she would want you to come play with me. She wouldn’t want you to cry all day.” He held out his hand. “Come on, Archie.”

Archie leaned away from Atala’s leg, revealing both of his brown eyes, both flicking back and forth between Sherlock and his extended hand. He looked up at Atala, unsure.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock promised, even though it was not okay – that neither of them would ever be okay again.

But slowly, Archie let go of Atala’s hand, closed the distance between him and Sherlock, and held onto Sherlock’s hand.

Feeling victorious, Sherlock looked up at Atala, ready to smirk or do something twice as childish, but he found that she looked relieved to be rid of the youngest tribute to ever compete in the Hunger Games. Maybe she felt bad for him, too, but didn’t know how to help. He pressed his lips together in a tight smile and nodded to her, stood up, and led Archie away from her, and looked at their options.

What could a three year old do in this place?

“I miss momma,” the boy said, and Sherlock looked down at him.

“I do, too,” he admitted, before he could stop himself.

They stuck to small obstacles – nothing to do with weaponry, and Sherlock made sure he could always see Harry – who had swung by to say hi and to ask if he was alright with her going off and legitimately training.

“Where Lou-Lou go?” he asked quietly, as Sherlock helped him across the balance beam.

“Louise is back upstairs – where your room is,” Sherlock explained.

“Why?”

“None of the mentors – none of our brothers and sisters are allowed to be here. Like how Louise can’t come to school with you.”

“I miss school.”

“Me too.” Compared to being in the Hunger Games, Sherlock would take school any day.

* * *

The moment Sherlock and Harry returned from their training (Harry walking with Sherlock up the staircase), Harry gathered John and they both went into Mycroft’s office, where he was working. Harry was the one who knocked, and though they were allowed to enter the room, they opened the door to discover that Mycroft had not looked up from his work.

“What’s up, Harry?” John asked as they sat down in the two chairs before the desk.

“There was something that happened today that I wanted to tell you guys about – something about Sherlock –” Harry began, but Mycroft cut her off.

“Yes, what has he done, now?” he asked, impatient.

“Well, um. You know the three year old from District Nine? Archie?” she asked, and John nodded. “Well, Sherlock kind of...comforted him today. Like, a lot. Archie was crying a lot and Atala couldn’t console him and Sherlock just...he just walked up to him and started talking to him. He’s never talked to anyone like he talked to Archie – he was really kind and he didn’t even train; he just stayed with Archie all day...” Suddenly an image flashed across John’s mind: the image of Sherlock and a young child, holding hands – smiling – he knew it was impossible, especially now, but he was sure he was imagining Sherlock Holmes – his Sherlock Holmes – as a father to a child that they called theirs. He shook his head as Harry went on. “I dunno, I just thought it was something you guys would like to know about – something good you might want to remember, I mean, in case...in case something happens – in the Arena –”

“Yes, yes, thank you Harriet, but if you don’t mind I’m sort of busy at the moment, so if you and John would please see yourselves out I would appreciate it.”

John turned to Mycroft, mouth open, ready to reprimand him for disrespecting Harry – ready to yell at him if he needed to – but then he saw Mycroft’s face. It was still turned downward, and he was still staring at the paper he was writing on, but his entire demeanor had changed. His hands shook, and John found a droplet of moisture at the tip of his nose. It dripped down to the table, staining his paper, and John turned back to Harry.

“Mycroft’s right – he’s terribly busy – we should go.”

Ten minutes later, John was in the elevator going up to the roof, where he had agreed to meet with Louise Neal. She was there when he arrived, and he hugged her tightly, and relayed the information Harry had given him to her. By the end, she was crying.

“He doesn’t understand the Games,” she said, finally. “I won when he had just turned one – you can’t explain to someone that young that you killed people, you just can’t. How am I supposed to explain to it to him, now? That this is what our world is? I didn’t truly understand until I was ten – how can I explain this to someone who doesn’t even understand death?” she asked.

He had broken it to Harry when she was five – when he learned at the age of eight, he blurted it out when their mother tried explaining why their parents didn’t want them watching it. The next year, both of them were planted in front of the television, because they both finally understood, and there was no use in keeping them from watching it, anymore. Of course Archie had watched the Games that young, even if he didn’t remember it – he had to watch his sister play.

“What have you told him?” John asked.

“I told him it was a game – a _real_ game. I told him that the people who lost didn’t die – they just couldn’t play anymore. I told him the other tributes from District Nine was so embarrassed by their losses that they never leave their houses, which is why no one sees them. He’s not even upset by the Games – he just doesn’t like being in this place that he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t even understand why I cry. He says he’s not going to hide if he loses. I want to tell him – I want to tell him so badly – I _want_ him to understand – but I can’t. I’ve tried. He’ll never know until it’s too late.”

“He seems to like Sherlock – maybe he could –”

“No, I can’t put that on him. I _should_ be the one to...I just can’t. I don’t want to see the hope leave his eyes. He’s too young for this, John.”

Again he thought of Sherlock as a father – of himself as a father – he thought of the fact that he and Sherlock had fallen in love and would never be able to live out their lives happily together. He thought of all the mentors – every single one, and what they faced each day, waking up from nightmares to the flashbacks they had to relive over and over –

“We all are.”


	13. The Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Work's been difficult and it's going to be difficult for the next few weeks. So I'm posting this chapter, and then the next chapter will be arriving in about three weeks, when work will (hopefully) be less difficult.

The next day, Harry joined Sherlock and John on their journey down to the training center.

“So you’re afraid of elevators?” Harry asked.

“I’m not _afraid_ – they just make me nauseous,” Sherlock tried to explain.

“I can’t believe it – Sherlock Holmes: afraid of elevators.”

“Don’t tease him,” John said from his place between them – where he always felt he was stuck, these days.

“But _elevators_ –”

“You can always go back up and ride it down if you love it so much,” Sherlock offered, and Harry laughed, and it was almost like everything was the way it should’ve been.

The biggest reminder were the passing Avoxes – they waved to these Avoxes as they passed, but the Avoxes immediately avoided eye contact. Another thing they changed when they realized that there were two tributes and the mentor in the stairwell was their hands – they moved them in the same way that Clover did when she spoke until they noticed they were not alone, and then dropped their hands immediately at their sides. They were signing – all of them were.

After seeing Louise, John had met up with Clover, and she taught him a few words and phrases in her language – important words like “hello”, “goodbye”, “my name is John Watson”, “help”, and all of the curse words they could think of. There was one phrase John requested to be taught: “You’re safe.” It was an easy enough thing to say – he had to point at them, then ball up his fists, cross his wrists, and then uncross them, as if he were wiping a slate clean. Each time he did it, they gaped at him for a moment, surprised, but then smiled shyly at him before they passed him by.

“Why don’t you just tell them they’re safe?” Sherlock had asked at one point.

“Because it shows I know what they’re doing, and they’re safe because I can do it, too.”

“Can you say Harry?” his sister asked.

“Yes,” he said, and he signed her name.

“You’re teaching me how to sign tonight,” Sherlock insisted.

“Of course.”

* * *

Archie pointed at Harry from across the training room.

“Look at her.”

Harry was exceptionally talented in the obstacle course. As Archie climbed up and down the rope wall (the only thing he really enjoyed doing within the confines of the room), Sherlock kept an eye on Harry as she bounced from station to station, always finding her way back to the obstacle course. She continuously tore through it in the shortest amount of time, sometimes beating her score, sometimes not, but she was always above everyone else. The person in second place was Charles Augustus Magnussen, despite his old age, surprising even Sherlock. Sherlock would’ve been in third, or maybe even in second place, but he ran through it with Archie, which landed him in the five-minute area, as opposed to Harry’s under-a-minute.

[Not only did Sherlock keep an eye on Harry, but he also kept an eye out for Charles Augustus. He strode everywhere as if he owned the place, even though he was the furthest thing from a person who owned anything in the Capitol. He cut in front of people in line and made sure he touched everything he could – including people. He certainly found himself a fascination with twenty-five-year-old Helen Hewlett, but then again, they were neighbors for years, and tributes from the same District normally gravitated toward each other. That still didn’t mean Sherlock liked the way Charles looked at her, though – as if she was something to eat.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=adtS8Dwd8Qw) In fact, he looked at everything like that, and apparently his brother did, as well, from the way John talked about him.

John was still letting Sherlock sleep in his room, which Sherlock was grateful for, but it seemed as if the dynamic between them had changed. They never spoke of themselves, or what they were going to lose – really, they only spoke about John’s mentoring duties, and of Charles Augustus and Hannibal Lecter Magnussen.

“I saw Hannibal at lunch,” John would announce. “I swear, he had nothing but meat – red meat, no fish or chicken. And he looked _sad_ about it.”

“Charles Augustus stared at Helen Hewlett while licking his fingers during our lunch.”

“Ew. He hasn’t said anything to you and Harry, right?”

“No.”

But today, he did.

Sherlock looked away from Archie to find Harry at the archery station, and just in time to see Charles Augustus Magnussen striding up behind her. Within seconds, he was just behind her, speaking:

“Your form is entirely wrong, you know.”

Harry nearly jumped out of her skin, spinning around to face him. Her face paled at the sight of him, but she tried to act casual.

“Yeah, well, I’m hitting the mark, so it's fine. I was just leaving, though. Here,” she said, holding out her bow.

“No, let me show you –” he started, reaching out to turn her back around – to put himself up against her – to breathe into her neck –

“HEY,” Sherlock felt as if he was roaring as he quickly closed in on them in the fastest walk he could manage. He could feel everyone staring – tributes and trainers and Gamemakers and Peacekeepers alike – but he didn’t care. Before Charles could touch her, Sherlock said the first thing that came into his mind: “Harry... Hi.” He could have punched himself in the face right there, but he had stopped Magnussen, and that’s what mattered.

“Hi,” Harry replied, just as anxiously. “Do you need me for something –?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “Over here – come on –” he said, letting her drop the bow to the floor and then grabbing her arm, dragging her across the room.

“Thanks,” Harry whispered when they were out of Charles Augustus’ earshot but not quite yet into Archie’s.

“No problem.”

“Should we tell John?”

“Yeah, but let’s not make a big deal out of it – Magnussen’s a tribute; we were going to have to deal with him sooner or later. Let me worry about telling him, alright?”

“Alright,” Harry agreed, just as they approached Archie.

“Hey, Archie – can Harry hang out with us?”

“Sure,” he said. “I like your net-less.”

“Thank you,” she said, and he started climbing up the rope wall again.

“How is he?” she asked quietly, standing next to Sherlock as he spotted Archie from below.

“I’m starting to get the idea that he doesn’t quite understand what’s going on. He keeps talking about going home.”

“He thinks he’s going to win?”

“No – he talks about _all of us_ going home. No matter who wins and who loses. He keeps saying ‘we get what we get and we don’t get upset.’ I don’t think he understands what happens if we lose.”

“Shit,” she said, louder than she should have.

“That’s a bad word!” Archie called.

“Sorry,” Harry and Sherlock both called up.

“Are you okay, by the way?” Sherlock asked Harry. “Answer honestly – I know when you’re lying.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry smirked, pushing Sherlock a bit – the first playful, Harry-like thing she had done since arriving in the Capitol. “I’m fine. Really. Thanks again, for getting me out of there.”

“Of course – I’ll die before he touches you.”

* * *

That night, Sherlock and John sat on opposite sides of John’s bed, signing to one another. John was leading and Sherlock was picking it up even faster than John had with Clover. He simply flowed through the alphabet, and soon they were conversing through the words they knew and fingerspelling. It was amazing, sitting with Sherlock Holmes and not speaking to him with his voice. They talked about their days and John asked how training went, careful not to reveal that he knew about Sherlock and Archie – if Sherlock wanted to talk about that with him, he would.

At first, Sherlock seemed fine, but as John asked how Sherlock’s training session went, his façade slowly broke down, and he bit his lip.

“What?” John asked quietly, the first word either one of them had physically spoken aloud in about an hour. Sherlock looked away, at a fold in John’s blanket. “Sherlock?”

“We...had an encounter today. Of the...Magnussen variety,” Sherlock said, quietly.

John instantly sat up, like his spine was stiffening just by the mentioning of his name.

“You?” he asked.

“No – Harry. I got her away from him, though,” Sherlock added quickly, upon seeing John’s face paling. “I almost caused a bit of a scene, actually.”

“I heard about that – during lunch today, there was a bit of a scuffle but no one had to interfere so it was fine. That was you?” John asked, and Sherlock scoffed in reply.

“Who else? He was near your sister; what was I supposed to do?” Sherlock asked, shrugging.

“What did you do?” John asked.

“I sort of just shouted at him from across the room, grabbed Harry, and kept her with me and Archie for the rest of the day.”

He had mentioned Archie, so John pushed.

“Archie Neal? Louise’s brother?” he asked.

“Yeah – Louise’s brother. He seems to be taking a liking to me.”

John knew this was a lie; sure, Archie must’ve liked Sherlock enough to stay with him, but obviously Sherlock didn’t want John knowing that it was Sherlock who sought out a friendship with Archie, and not the other way around.

John grinned.

“He couldn’t have picked a better person to take a liking to.”

Sherlock smiled back at him, eyes alight.

“How do you sign ‘I love you’?” he asked in a whisper, after a moment, and John was glad he had asked Clover to show him earlier that day.

“I –” He pointed at himself. “– love –” He balled his hands into fists and crossed his arms over his chest, like he was hugging a book. “– you.” He pointed at Sherlock.

“I love you,” Sherlock echoed, repeating the motions, and leaned forward, pressing his lips to John’s.

But, for the first time ever, John did not want to be kissing him. For the first time ever, the kiss did nothing but remind him of how short Sherlock’s life had been cut – how short _they_ had cut it. Because John knew – John _knew_ , even though they hadn’t said the words themselves, that either way Sherlock wasn’t coming back. If it came down to the two of them, Sherlock would sacrifice himself so Harry could come home. And if Harry died before then, there was no way Sherlock was going to put himself in John’s presence. No matter what happened, Sherlock was going to die in at least five days. But John accepted Sherlock slipping his tongue into John’s mouth – he accepted the urgent kiss, because Sherlock was probably reminded of this fact with every breath he took.

* * *

It was just after lunch when the phone rang the next day. John was in his bedroom, reading the mentor manifesto Mycroft had been begging him to read over the last year, but when he heard the phone ring he dashed to Mycroft’s office, finding Mycroft had received the call.

“Yes, what has he done?” he asked, and John’s heart dropped to the flats of his feet.

_Sherlock._

Mycroft made eye contact with John, and silently mouthed the words, “no one’s hurt,” and then spoke to whoever was on the phone.

“We’ll take care of it – he’ll cooperate more smoothly with us anyway, and I imagine you’d like to keep this as quiet as possible. Yes. Yes, of course. Good day.” He hung up the phone, looked at John again, and took his umbrella in his hand, standing up. “It seems that Sherlock has done something no tribute has ever done before. I've just been informed that he broke out of training.”

Just when John didn’t think his heart could fall any lower, it did.

“He – he broke out?” he repeated.

“Security’s normally air-tight, here; even if he did break out of training, there’s no way he could have left the center.”

“So he’s somewhere in this building?” John asked, and Mycroft nodded.

“Any ideas?” he asked, and without even really thinking about it John spoke.

“I’ll check the stairwell, you check the roof,” he began. “And if you can’t find him there...” He took a shaky breath, not wanting to make his worries real by speaking the words, but knowing that he had to, just in case. “...you know this place better than I do. If he’s not on the roof...look anywhere there’s Morphling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you for the exciting(?) conclusion to Part 1 of this thing at the end of August! :D


	14. The Stairwell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said that I was gonna post this chapter and start the hiatus at the end of August, but today's my birthday and frankly it's been a pretty sad birthday so I'm doing it today.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER! if you want it/feel like you need it read the end notes~
> 
> Love you okay bye

John raced down the stairs, weaving his way around the Avoxes already in the stairwell, desperately searching for Sherlock’s black training suit among the sea of white Avox uniforms. His plan was simple: run downstairs, meet up with his boyfriend, deliver him back to the training room, and then meet up with Mycroft – wherever he might be – to let him know that Sherlock was fine.

And he _was_ fine – of course he was fine. John knew he was fine. He had to be, right now.

John was on the fifth floor – he would never forget that it was the fifth floor – when he encountered a space that was almost completely empty. There were no Avoxes coming up or down, but there was someone there. John turned the corner, and almost bumped right into a man in a tribute’s training suit. He looked up, about to kiss Sherlock or scold him or both, and his heart was crushed by the sight of a forty-year-old man in glasses, smoking a cigarette.

John was alone, in the stairwell, with Charles Augustus Magnussen.

_“There’s a reason why I haven’t shown you the Fiftieth Hunger Games’ tapes, and that is because Hannibal Lecter Magnussen is a monster. And I’ve met Charles Augustus; he’s exactly the same.”_

_“These men are absolutely vile, and I advise you to stay away from them, both of them, at all costs.”_

How the _hell_ did the Peacekeepers let _two_ tributes slip by them in _one hour?!_

John tried to keep his cool.

“You’re not allowed here,” John said quietly, unable to come up with anything actually intelligent to say, and Charles Augustus smirked.

“Funny, those words haven’t been said to me in years. You _do_ know who I am, surely?” he took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke in John’s face, looking him over, hungrily. “...Of course you do – you’re John Watson. William’s boyfriend –”

“Sherlock,” John corrected through gritted teeth.

“It’s William, though,” he reminded him, sneering. “Tell me: have you two said your goodbyes yet? Or are you waiting for the morning of for that final fuck?” he asked, his mouth wrapping around the words slowly, watching John all the while for a reaction.

“Right –” John said, already having enough, balling up his fists and trying to move past Charles Augustus. When Charles Augustus stepped in his way, John felt the urge to shove him to get him to move – he might have even raised his hands to do so –

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Johnny Boy,” Charles Augustus muttered, and John’s blood ran cold, a thousand memories rushing through his mind. “I’m a tribute, don’t you forget. No one can touch me, and that goes triple for you.” As he spoke, he stepped forward, and John stepped back. “A mentor hurting a tribute from an opposing District; I wonder how that would look. I bet they’d have you killed for even laying a finger on me; for even the suggestion of sabotage. [I, on the other hand...can do anything I want.” John felt the wall touch his back. He had nowhere to go, and Charles Augustus was still coming closer – leaning towards him – getting in his face – “I’m a tribute, John, which means that, right now, I own everything. The Capitol – the audience – the other tributes – _you_ –”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wqx-H2KsuMA)

[The movement was so quick that John didn’t catch it until he felt what Charles Augustus had done to him: he was cupping John’s genitals through his pants, pressing his palm into the most sensitive part of it.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wqx-H2KsuMA)

[In that moment, time itself seemed to stop. This was actually happening – John was alive – he wasn’t dreaming – and someone twice his age was touching him through his pants. No – that couldn’t be right – time wouldn’t stop for something like this. There had to be a clock that was ticking – somewhere in this goddamned place time was still passing...but John couldn’t find the proof.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wqx-H2KsuMA)

“I –” he tried to speak, and Charles Augustus grinned at him as he took a step closer – pressing himself onto John’s body, watching his face pale. “I’m a victor –” John forced out, voice shaking. “I-I could tell them – they’ll hate you for –” but he was cut off, by Charles Augustus Magnussen – a forty year old man – pushing his mouth onto John’s – shoving his tongue down his throat.

It was gross – it was wet and slobbery and everything Sherlock’s kiss wasn’t – John tried to rip his face from Charles Augustus’ but he was cornered – all he did was lead their faces in a dance against the wall. He wanted to push Charles Augustus away, but he couldn’t find his arms. He knew they were there, he knew he could use them, but he couldn’t get his mind to send the message, to command his arms to move.

After what felt like an eternity of fighting and losing, Charles Augustus took his lips from John’s, leaving his mouth wet and warm in ways John never wanted to think about again. His face was still entirely too close to John’s – the tips of their noses were still touching.

“Sorry – you were probably talking?” Magnussen asked, breathless as he dragged the tip of his nose along the tip of John’s.

John wanted to run – wanted to get the hell away from this man, but he couldn’t feel his legs. He couldn’t feel anything, apart from where Charles Augustus’ hand and the tip of his nose were and where his lips had been, and the overwhelming urge to vomit. He found he was staring past Magnussen, at the five on the wall, and no matter what he couldn’t avert his eyes. John couldn’t move at all.

Charles Augustus leaned closer to John, right up to his ear, and continued speaking.

“I’m surprised you survived last year, given how weak you are. I thought for sure you would’ve been Bloodbath meat, like your sister will be.”

John shivered as Magnussen pressed further into the most sensitive part of him, trying to ignore the smell and taste of smoke and the way Magnussen’s breath tickled his neck – it barely registered that he was talking about his sister – he just watched the number on the wall.

“William will be more difficult to dispose of, of course, but I’ll take care of him. I’ll take care of both of them, don’t you worry. I’ll try to be quick – no promises, though,” he chuckled, and – as punishment for not giving him a reaction, John supposed – he licked the side of John’s face.

John tried grounding himself – tried to keep himself from screaming, really – while he suffered through –

His name was John Watson – he was nineteen years old – he was somewhere – anywhere but here – his mind could take him back to the Arena he didn’t care – it didn’t matter as long as he kept his eyes on that number on the wall – the most important number in the entire goddamn world –

“And when I come back...When I win these Games...” he squeezed John, gently. “There will be a lot more of this. I’ll make sure I get _exclusive_ rights to you. I can so easily make it look like you went into hiding after the deaths of your sister and boyfriend, you know, and only we’ll know the truth.” He watched John, gauging a reaction, and chuckled. “I must say, I just _love_ your little soldier face; trying to stay strong. To tell you the truth, though, I’d like to punch it. And I will, of course – loads of times. But for now, I’ll do this –”

Suddenly, his hand was off of John’s private area and pulling down the collar of his shirt. Before he could react, there was a sharp pain; Charles Augustus Magnussen had just put out his cigarette on John’s chest – burning him – branding him.

John grit his teeth, squinting at the number five, careful not to make any noises apart from a sharp inhale.

Charles Augustus grinned, stepped away from John, dropped his cigarette, stepped on it, and then looked back up at John.

“Don’t worry, Johnny Boy,” he began, and then paused only to pat John’s face three times over. “It’ll all be over, soon,” he said, and then placed his hand on John’s cheek. Instantly, John’s body cringed at how surprisingly wet his hand was.

“Apologies for the dampness of my touch; you'll get used to it, eventually,” he promised, and winked at him.

And then he was gone.

As if he had turned on faucets full blast, Avoxes flooded through the stairwell, just as they had done before. It was like if Charles Augustus had built an invisible wall on either side, and now that he was gone the barrier was lifted. They streamed through, ignoring John, trying to get to the places they were ordered to go. There was the proof that time was moving again – the proof he had needed so desperately just moments ago – the Avoxes were moving around him, they were passing him and appearing and disappearing in and out of John’s line of sight.

He heard a sound erupting from his chest, a low growl straining to explode from him, but he had no idea that he could even make such a noise – and suddenly he was falling – down, down to the ground. Even when he hit the cement floor he still felt like he was falling – falling through the floor, falling into a deep dark abyss, falling...

There was a face before him, a freckled face with brown eyes, red hair and a white gown – an Avox –

“You,” John breathed. It was the girl from before – from far before – from what seemed like years ago – from days before John’s Games – and all at once he remembered what he had said to her –

_“I’m really scared, and really I just want to see someone who still loves me.”_

She was moving her hands. John watched them, and it took a few moments for him to start collecting the letters from his memory, but she repeated them over and over so John could get it:

A-R-E Y-O-U O-K A-R-E Y-O-U O-K A-R-E Y-O-U O-K

Was he okay? What _was_ okay, to him? _That certainly wasn’t_ , John thought almost rationally. Was he okay? Fine was a word – fine was the word he would most likely use. He would say he was fine and move on to deal with it on his own, but –

“No,” John found his voice again, and felt as if his bones were falling apart inside of him, stabbing at his insides –

W-H-A-T H-A-P-P-E-N-E-D

Happened – what had happened? There was – there was touching involved – touching John didn’t like – and Charles Augustus Magnussen –

He suddenly felt extremely aware of the wetness of Magnussen’s saliva on his face, and he wiped it off, digging his nails into his skin, trying to get it off – get it out of his pores – get it away –

The Avox grabbed his hand, making a strangled sound, not so different from the one he had made moments before, but John knew she was trying to say his name, trying to call him back to the present.

She signed the question again.

W-H-A-T H-A-P-P-E-N-E-D

He stared at her hand, and she held onto his with her free hand.

A-R-E Y-O-U H-U-R-T

Hurt? He felt numb – he felt like his brain was floating just above him, attached to a string tied like a noose around his neck, but was he hurt? He tried to think about it – tried to feel –

His body decided that then would be the best time to puke, right on the floor beside him, trying to expel Magnussen’s spit from the inside of his mouth, but even the taste of stomach acid and that morning’s breakfast couldn’t mask the taste of Charles Augustus Magnussen.

And then the rest of his body began to feel what had been done to it. John felt a pain on his chest and inside of his chest, and he felt a terrible feeling under his belt, but it was nothing compared to the Arena – knowing he was going to die –

But somehow, this was so much worse.

“Y-Yes,” he finally breathed, but the word felt wrong in his mouth. Maybe he wasn’t hurt? He tried out a different reply. “No –”

But the Avox wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was looking up, signing to other Avoxes as they passed. At first the word seemed unfamiliar to him, but then he remembered – deep in the recesses of his mind – that he had learned that word – Clover had taught it to him –

HELP

HELP ME

HELP HIM

HELP

In moments, someone was grabbing his arm, and John almost screamed and tried to fight them off as it took two Avoxes to hoist him to his feet. As they did, the redhead Avox signed to him:

D-O Y-O-U N-E-E-D H-O-S-P-I-T-A-L

Hospital – that wasn’t an option. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew that much.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, so he signed the word NO to her. She nodded, and then signed something completely unintelligible to him to the other two Avoxes, and they began to walk him up the stairs.

John could not speak until they reached the top – until they were at the door for District 12’s floor. He found he could stand on his own, and he was relieved. He could stand – he could survive...whatever had just happened to him. He looked at the girl – the one who had noticed him – the one he had mistaken for his sister before –

“Name?” he asked, voice strangled. “What’s your – name?”

The girl smiled sadly.

L-A-V-I-N-I-A

“Lavinia,” he tried, and she nodded, then opened the door for him before he could say anything else. Luckily, the main room in the penthouse was empty – there was no sign of Mrs. Hudson or Cinna or Mycroft or –

Mycroft.

Something inside him dropped to the floor. He needed to speak to Mycroft about...this. He, above anyone else, would know what to do about what had happened. Apparently he had spoken Mycroft’s name out loud, for Lavinia began to lead him into the hall – to Mycroft’s office.

“I can do it,” John muttered, and the girl nodded, and left him to make the terrifying steps to Mycroft’s door on his own.

When he got there, he knocked on the door, three times. Like how Magnussen patted his face –

Before he could call in, Mycroft replied.

“Come in, John.”

John opened the door and entered the room, closing the door behind him. Mycroft was sat at his desk, filling out paperwork. John had no idea how to even begin, but just as he was about to speak Mycroft cut him off, not even looking up at him as he spoke.

“Sherlock was on the roof – tossing stones off the edge and watching them bounce back, being dramatic like we all know Sherlock has the tendency to be –”

Sherlock. He had almost forgotten about Sherlock. Fuck, how was he going to tell _him_ about this?

Maybe he didn’t have to know. Maybe no one had to know.

John was about to carry Mycroft’s conversation, about to lead it as far away from what had happened in the stairwell as possible, but then Mycroft looked up.

And, as soon as their eyes met, John knew that Mycroft knew.

It was probably obvious, what with the way he probably reeked of cigarettes and had a mark from where he clawed at his own face. What’s more, John was probably pale to the point of the color of snow, and he could feel his own hands shake, but didn’t dare look to see if he was right. It was entirely obvious – Sherlock would probably tell within seconds, unless he could tell by the look of triumph on Magnussen’s face when he saw him back in the training room, similar to the one he had left John with...

And in that moment, everything came flooding back to him.

“John?” Mycroft asked, calling him back, concern etched into his features.

“S-Something happened,” John forced out, blinking back tears. “I...don’t...”

“Your brain is still trying to reach your body – I know that look; I’ve worn it plenty of times, myself. John, I want you to tell me what you’re thinking, whatever it is, even if it doesn’t make sense in your own head right now, and know that whatever you say will not leave this room –”

“Magnussen,” John cut him off, shoving the word out of his mouth, and Mycroft stood up.

“What was that?” he asked, even though John was sure he had spoken loud and clear. He moved around his desk, sitting John down in one of his chairs and crouching before him. “What did you say? Because if you said what I think you just said –”

“Magnussen,” John repeated, as if taking a gulp of air.

Mycroft squinted at John, his features suddenly stormy as a hurricane, and John then understood what Sherlock meant by crowning Mycroft Holmes as being worse than the East Wind. He looked positively terrifying.

“Elder or younger?” he asked darkly.

“Ch-Charles Augustus,” John replied, briefly forgetting which one was which.

Mycroft squinted at John harder, tilting his head, as if he had heard John wrong again.

“Charles Augustus? He’s in training –”

“Yeah, well, apparently he got out, too!” John said, but Mycroft leaned back as if John had yelled it – maybe he had. “He got out – and he found me – and he – he –” now the tears were escaping his eyes, rolling down his cheeks one at a time.

“John?” Mycroft asked, gently. “What did he do?”

John thought it over – the touch – what he said – the burn – the licking of his face – the _kiss_ – How the hell could he say any of that out loud to his boyfriend’s brother?

Maybe he didn’t have to.

“John?”

John gripped the side of his collar and pulled, revealing the cigarette burn.

“Oh my god – is that all he did?” Mycroft asked, and John shook his head. “Can you talk about it?” he asked, and John shook his head again. He couldn’t say it out loud, and even if he could, Mycroft couldn’t know about the kiss – the kiss was too much –

Mycroft’s eyes searched John, and John could feel himself being deduced – he could almost feel Mycroft’s brain at work, trying to solve the mystery of what exactly had been done.

“Please stop trying to figure it out,” John whispered, and Mycroft closed his eyes, though John could see him still trying to piece it together behind his eyelids.

“John...this is very important, and I need you to respond. You don’t need to go into detail; a simple yes or no will do.” He opened his eyes, and spoke so clearly it made John’s ears burn. “Did Charles Augustus Magnussen touch you inappropriately?” Mycroft asked, and John nodded.

 _And kissed me,_ John thought, but Mycroft spoke again before John could shake the thought from his head.

“Was it an assault?” he asked, and John knew what he was really asking – he was really asking if it wasn’t, without saying the word specifically.

“It was assault,” John confirmed. He had the word for it, now. “He assaulted me.”

Mycroft nodded to himself, straightened up, turned around, and, in one sweeping motion, shoved everything off his desk. John jumped back with such force that it moved his chair, watching wide eyed as Mycroft leaned over the now-empty desk, gripping the edges with white knuckles, breathing heavily.

After a few moments, Mycroft finally spoke.

“Do you know why I firmly believe that caring is not an advantage, John?” he asked.

John shook his head before realizing that Mycroft was still facing the other way. Before he could find his voice, however, Mycroft continued.

“Because I care too much. I’ve always cared too much. It was when my father died that I realized that if I cared, I would only get hurt in the end. So I stopped. There were only two people that stood as exceptions: Sherlock, and my mother. And slowly, they got taken away from me, too. But the list of exceptions has grown.” He then stood up straight and turned to face John. “I know I seem protective over you, but you must understand: you, John Watson, were the first tribute that I was able to save. You, John, are my brother. I did not make that exception until after you won your Games, because I thought then you’d be safe to care about. You had won the Hunger Games, you were in love with my brother; I thought nothing could touch you. But I was wrong. I was so wrong. But that’s not your fault; that’s no one's fault but Magnussen’s. And I can look into your eyes, John, and see that he made a promise that he would touch you again. Am I right?” Mycroft paused to let John close his eyes and shudder – because he was right – of course he was right. “I know I cannot do anything now, but I can promise you that if Charles Augustus Magnussen wins the Hunger Games, John...I will have him assassinated.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Sexual Assault
> 
> I'll start posting chapters again once this fic is FINISHED. So I'll see you....sometime................  
> If you love me enough to talk to me, my snapchat's saraherbie :p


	15. PART TWO: THE QUELL // Deductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOA HOLY SHIT IT'S A CHAPTER!!  
> Honestly I'm only posting this to be like "hey so I was rereading Mockingjay and I feel like Octavia would be more likely to make a comment about Sherlock and John's sex life as opposed to Venia SO I just went through and switched Venia's name with Octavia"  
> but still it's a chapter I'm not dead and I didn't abandon the fic.  
> So there you go.

Sherlock Holmes stood, alone in the training center’s cafeteria, waiting for his name to be called. He knew he should have been thinking about the fact that he was to be judged by the Gamemakers in a few moments, but all he could really think about was John.

Something bad had happened to John yesterday, but Sherlock didn’t know what, and John refused to tell him.

He had noticed it as soon as he and Harry had gotten back to the penthouse – if it hadn’t been obvious by John’s bloodshot eyes and pale face, and the way Mycroft looked at him, it was definitely made obvious by the fact that John needed the support of his cane. As soon as he saw him, Sherlock was in concerned boyfriend mode – a state of mind he had very nearly perfected over the past year.

The first rule about handling John when he was like this was not to bring it up in front of anyone. John probably knew Sherlock knew this rule, too, for he stayed within Mycroft’s line of sight and range of hearing at all times until it was time for bed.

Sherlock watched John closely as he went through his nightly routine, but even that was different: John closed the door to the bathroom when brushing his teeth and getting changed into his pajamas. They were together; they had been shirtless in front of each other before, and they were both fine with it – until now. Not only that, but as soon as Sherlock had taken off his shirt to get changed into pajamas, John was suddenly extremely interested in the mentor manifesto that, months before, he had told Sherlock could “fuck off” and let him know that his brother was being an “utter cock” for getting on John’s ass about it.

When Sherlock was done brushing his teeth, he stood in the doorway to the bathroom, crossed his arms, and watched John sitting on the bed that they shared, his nose buried deep in the booklet. After a few moments, John looked up – and the guilt was written all over his face.

“What?” John asked, trying to act nonchalant but only coming across as defensive.

[“Something happened today,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5K7-GZOIhk) Sherlock replied, making it clear it wasn’t a question.

John put down the manifesto.

“Well, yeah – you decided to vanish off the face of the earth and take a relaxing vacation to the roof during training. So yes, I’m a little off – excuse me for caring,” John replied sarcastically. He was still so defensive – he was definitely hiding something.

“To you, I mean,” Sherlock went on. “Something happened to you today.”

John shrugged.

“Well, my boyfriend disappeared; there’s that one.”

“As you keep reminding me. Seriously: what happened?” Sherlock asked, and John crossed his arms to mirror Sherlock’s.

“What makes you think something happened?” he asked, and Sherlock could tell as soon as the words passed John’s lips he regretted saying them, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from voicing his deductions.

“For one, the cane is back. Second off, Mycroft’s been watching you like a hawk ever since Harry and I got back. Thirdly, you barely ate anything during dinner, and that normally means –”

“We’re not doing this,” John said, putting his hands up, like he was pushing away some invisible force, but Sherlock was on a roll.

“You only say that when I’m right –” Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

“Drop it,” he ordered, eyes dark, but Sherlock had one more question – he just had to be sure –

“Did someone hurt you?” he asked.

“Sherlock Holmes!” John shouted, dropping his fists on the bed, and Sherlock also lowered his arms, taken aback by John’s sudden anger. “Drop. It.”

“Dropping it,” Sherlock muttered, after a few seconds spent trying to find his voice.

But he knew – he _knew_ that something wasn’t right – that the subject shouldn’t have been dropped, and the way John had yelled at Sherlock was the final proof.

Someone had hurt John, and John didn’t want to speak about it, which led them to fall asleep that night so far apart Sherlock had awoken to find he had stretched out his arm in John’s direction while he slept and he still couldn’t reach him.

He was still thinking about this when Atala opened the door.

“Holmes, William,” she called, and Sherlock turned around, suddenly realizing he had been staring at the wall for the past ten minutes.

Upon entering the training room, he found that it was almost completely devoid of people, apart from about four Peacekeepers, Atala, and the observation room set into the wall above that held about twenty Gamemakers, all looking like they were having a dinner party instead of judging the tributes. Some people were watching him, but he quickly deduced that was only because he was John Watson’s boyfriend, and such a big component of last year’s Hunger Games. They probably knew he had spent his entire training opportunity looking after Panem’s youngest tribute, and therefore weren’t expecting much of him.

Of course, Sherlock was going to prove them wrong. John would be pissed at him for it – in fact, he had warned him against showing off before dropping Sherlock off for his evaluation.

“Remember –” he had started, after Harry had left the lobby, leaving them alone to say their goodbyes.

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted, not really wanting to hear what John wanted to say, for they were technically still in the middle of a fight about whatever had happened the day before.

John took a breath before trying again. _“Remember –”_

 _“Yes,”_ Sherlock repeated, but John persisted once more, and this time Sherlock let him.

“Remember what Mycroft told you – don’t try to be clever. Just keep it simple and brief.”

“God forbid a tribute in the Hunger Games should come across as intelligent,” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Intelligent, fine; let’s give ‘smart ass’ a wide berth, though, shall we?” he suggested, and Sherlock thought about it for a moment.

“I’ll just be myself,” he decided, and John’s eyes widened in disbelief, aggravated by his stubbornness.

“Are you _listening_ to me?!”

He had been, of course – he made a point to hear everything John said – but he needed to prove to the Gamemakers that he was worth betting on.

He stood before them, crossing his arms, and he eyed them all, collecting information, and then spoke:

“Sherlock Holmes, District Twelve,” he introduced himself, and then pointed at the first Gamemaker he made eye contact with. “Your name is Derick Meek and you betrayed your own brother to earn your position as a Gamemaker, but most of your peers wouldn’t know that, or even know that you have a brother, for that matter, since neither of you have spoken to one another since you got the job.” Before he could see the look on Derick’s face, his eyes scanned the lot for his next victim: “Curtis Duckett, you are the husband in a seven-year-long unhappy marriage – the birth of his first child sort of ruined it for him, and his second child was brought into the world to try to mend the relationship, poor thing. Didn’t seem to work though, seeing as you’ve started having an affair. Joni Lyman, you’re _also_ having an affair, with Mr. Duckett, apparently, that’s interesting –” By this time, everyone was watching him, and he continued on, introducing each of the Gamemakers to one another, revealing some of their deepest secrets along the way. No matter what the reactions were, no matter how much they looked like they wanted to kill him for knowing so much, Sherlock continued speaking, continued spilling secrets, until he was done. Honestly, he was surprised someone hadn’t carried him out or shot him or worse in order to get him to shut up. When he had nothing left to say about the people who were supposed to be judging him, he revealed why he decided to do this to them: “I know everything there is to know, about everything – every _one_ – with a single glance. I even know who will win the Hunger Games this year.”

After ten full seconds of shocked silence, Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker, closed his dropped jaw, and called Sherlock’s bluff.

“And who would that be?” he asked.

“You?” another brave Gamemaker asked.

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on Seneca’s, and gave him his answer.

* * *

When Sherlock returned from his judgment with the Gamemakers, John immediately dropped his gaze, hiding behind the mentor manifesto – a booklet that had quickly become his new best friend over the last twenty-four hours.

Because Sherlock _knew._ He knew _everything._

After speaking with Mycroft the day before, John took the longest shower of his life. He sat for two hours under the scorching hot water, scrubbing at his skin so hard it bled in some places, trying to remove the feeling of Magnussen’s touch. He only emerged when Mycroft knocked on the door and alerted him that Sherlock and Harry would be back within the next thirty minutes. When they did return, John had made sure he wasn’t alone with Sherlock at any point, keeping within Mycroft’s line of sight at all times to protect him from the questions he knew Sherlock was dying to ask. But he couldn’t protect himself that night – at night, Sherlock was all he had.

It was so difficult for John to look at Sherlock, but when he planted himself directly in front of him, leaning against the bathroom’s doorframe with his arms crossed, John knew there was no avoiding him. When he looked at Sherlock, the first thing he noticed was a bit of toothpaste in the corner of his mouth, which on any other day John would’ve thought was endearing and made Sherlock look so incredibly human. The second thing he noticed was the way Sherlock was looking at him – squinting at him, eyes searching. John knew that look anywhere: deductions were being made.

“What?” John asked, finding his voice.

[“Something happened today,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5K7-GZOIhk) Sherlock said, and it wasn’t a question.

John put down the manifesto he had been looking at but was definitely too distracted by his own head to actually read, and said what Mycroft had told him to blame it on:

“Well, yeah – you decided to vanish off the face of the earth and take a relaxing vacation to the roof during training. So yes, I’m a little off – excuse me for caring,” John replied, trying to make it sound natural.

“To you, I mean,” Sherlock went on, and John felt a pang of horror in his chest. _He knew._ “Something happened to you today.”

John shrugged, trying to be casual, and repeated his argument:

“Well, my boyfriend disappeared; there’s that one.”

“As you keep reminding me. Seriously: what happened?” Sherlock asked, and John crossed his arms to match him.

“What makes you think something happened?” he asked, and he instantly wanted to put the words back into his mouth. That was probably the worst thing he could’ve asked – today especially. He did not need Sherlock’s deductions – he didn’t need to be told how glaringly obvious it was that he had been hurt –

“For one, the cane is back,” Sherlock began. “Second off, Mycroft’s been watching you like a hawk ever since Harry and I got back. Thirdly, you barely ate anything during dinner, and that normally means –”

“We’re not doing this,” John tried, but Sherlock was hearing none of it.

“You only say that when I’m right –” he began, but John cut him off.

“Drop it,” he ordered, trying to sound as final about it as he wanted to be.

“Did someone hurt you?” Sherlock asked, and he was _right_ and –

“Sherlock Holmes!” John shouted, and instantly regretted it; Sherlock dropped his arms, looking like he was about to cry. But he pressed on. “Drop. It.”

It had taken a few moments for Sherlock to reply.

“Dropping it.”

John was glad that Sherlock had listened – that he had dropped it, but something inside of him wanted Sherlock to keep pushing – to keep trying to get John to say something – because maybe, just maybe, then John might have.

But he didn’t, and perhaps that was the reason why John fell asleep and dreamed of kissing Sherlock, but woke up in horror at the end of the night when they parted lips and John found he had been kissing Jim Moriarty.

All day, no matter how much he scrubbed and scratched at his body or how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut, he couldn’t get the image out of his mind. And it showed, apparently – as soon as Harry and Sherlock left, Mycroft turned to John.

“Are you alright?” he had asked.

“Fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Well, I’m definitely not talking about it.”

Even Harry could tell. As soon as she came back from showing off for the Gamemakers, she sat next to John and asked him if he was okay.

“And before you say ‘yeah’ or ‘I’m fine’, let me just say that you don’t look okay,” she informed him before he could reply.

“Just stressed about you and Sherlock,” John said, only telling part of the truth.

And now there was Sherlock – now he was hiding from Sherlock, desperate to keep the truth from him. Again, he used Mycroft’s presence as a shield to keep Sherlock from speaking about private matters, and when Mycroft wasn’t available he used Harry or Mrs. Hudson – anything to keep Sherlock from being alone with him.

That night, the scores from the judgments were broadcasted. Harry gripped onto John’s hand, and John held Sherlock’s out of habit, and surprisingly that led to Mycroft reaching out and holding onto Sherlock’s hand as they all sat on the sofa together. They all understood the importance of this score – it would decide who was a good target, and who would be a good challenge; it would decipher who the rest of the tributes would focus on, and who might pass under the radar long enough to win. After this, the only way to save themselves would be to have a flawless interview with Caesar Flickerman, but sometimes even that didn’t help.

Their hopes for any sort of survival on Harry’s part were crushed very quickly: Charles Augustus Magnussen had scored himself a twelve out of twelve.

“Fuck,” Mycroft whispered – the first time John had ever heard him utter the word.

When comparing the two groups of Careers from this year and last year it wasn’t nearly as evenly-matched – the group from last year was far more skilled, in terms of the scores they received. They were amazed when Helen Hewlett, from District 1, was scored a seven for her efforts, and when William Wiggins, from District 7, received a ten.

John watched Sherlock analyze the competition – memorizing who scored what and changing his opinion of them as needed. He was just thinking about how he never wanted to forget those eyes, when suddenly Sherlock closed them, tightly, as if he had been stabbed in the stomach.

“What?” John whispered, and looked at the screen to figure out what was going on – what had caused Sherlock so much stress. He found Archibald Neal staring back at him, and a number one beside him.

Archie Neal had scored a one.

Just like Philip Anderson.

But Philip made it past the bloodbath, John remembered.

_“What did Philip do?”_

_“He –”_

_“It doesn’t matter what I did!”_

_“Philip hid.”_

He had hid – maybe if Archie hid, he could survive, too –

But Philip had died, in the end, and Archie would too, especially with people like Magnussen in the Arena. If Archie survived the bloodbath, it would just be a matter of time until someone got to him.

And then Harry’s face was on the screen.

“From District Twelve, Harriet Watson has gotten herself a nine,” Caesar Flickerman announced, and everyone in the room released their bated breath.

“Just like her brother!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, as John hugged his sister.

She had a chance – just a chance – just like he had, last year.

“And finally, William Holmes, or Sherlock Holmes, with a score of...twelve!”

At once, the celebration over Harry’s score stopped, and everyone’s eyes were on Sherlock, their jaws on the floor.

Mycroft was the first to recover.

 _“What_...did you _do?”_ he asked, rising, which kicked John into motion.

“Do you know how large of a target is on your back, now?” he asked, voice cracking, pained by the idea of said target.

Sherlock shrugged. “I just did what I always do – I wasn’t _looking_ for a twelve –”

“Just did what you always do? Do _not_ tell me you played _deductions_ with the _Gamemakers,”_ Mycroft snarled, cutting his brother off.

“I admit, I might’ve played deductions with the Gamemakers –”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft and John groaned.

“Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?!” Mycroft asked.

“I wanted to show them what I could do – I wanted to prove to them that I knew what I was talking about when I –”

Instantly, Sherlock caught himself, and pursed his lips, making sure not even air escaped his mouth.

“When. You. _What,_ Brother Mine?” Mycroft asked, slowly.

Sherlock looked up at Harry, and John knew immediately what he had told them.

“When I told them who would win the Hunger Games.”


	16. Pressure Points

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to probably the longest chapter in this freakin' fic!

The day of the interviews was a disaster from start to finish, from the moment Mrs. Hudson had opened the envelope that came with breakfast that announced that the victor siblings would be interviewed alongside their tribute siblings, to the interviews themselves and after. As soon as the morning’s notice was read, everything was sent into a rushed speed that John hated – the prep teams had to almost pull them all from the breakfast table so there would be enough time for all of them to be prepped and ready – John’s old prep team working on Sherlock and Mary Morstan’s old prep team working on Mycroft, first.

“How are you doing?” John asked his sister, as soon as the Holmes brothers and the prep teams were gone. “I feel like we haven't talked much since we got here.”

“We haven't,” Harry replied.

“I’m sorry –” he began, but she shook her head.

“It’s okay. It’s been hard enough for you – I’m not gonna be the stupid kid sister and try to fight for your attention.”

“You’ve never been the stupid kid sister,” he said, and she gave him the best smile she could at the moment – not a very good one.

“Do you think he’s right?” she asked, quietly. “About me...winning the Games?”

John shrugged. “I don’t think he’s gonna rest until he is.”

[“Would it be bad if I said I didn’t want to win?” she asked, and John could see her eyes filling with tears.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rlkWvb8wvXE)

[He took her in his arms. “No, it wouldn’t.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rlkWvb8wvXE)

After Sherlock and Mycroft were prepped, John and Harry were sent in to their separate rooms – John with his old prep team, and Harry with Mary’s old prep team.

“Where’s Cinna and Connie?” John asked Venia as the team began to disrobe him for prepping. “I haven’t seen them all morning.”

“They didn’t know you and Mycroft were to be interviewed – they’re working on your suits – What’s this?”

John looked up at her, and followed her gaze onto his chest –

“Is that a cigarette burn?”

“It’s nothing –” he said, quickly.

“I didn’t think you smoked –” Flavius mused.

“Did Sherlock do that?” Octavia asked.

“John –”

“IT’S NOTHING,” John nearly shouted, and everyone stared at him, wide-eyed, finally silent. “It’s nothing. Just – just cover it up. Please.”

And, while exchanging glances with one another, the prep team got to work, doing just that.

* * *

All throughout the day, Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking about the training score he had earned. His twelve meant many things – it meant sponsors, it meant he was a huge target to everyone now, but it also meant something else: it meant he got the same score as Charles Augustus Magnussen.

As the tributes and their siblings gathered in the backstage area to wait for their exclusive interviews with Caesar, Sherlock’s eyes were immediately drawn to the Magnussen brothers – to Charles Augustus Magnussen, specifically.

Mycroft had been right when he described him as a shark – he even looked like one, in person: flat faced, dead eyed – just like sharks in pictures he had seen at school back in District 12. Just looking at him made his stomach turn – but he would have to. He would have to look into that face – look into those dead eyes that were hiding so much but knew everything there was to know about everyone – and kill him to keep Harry safe.

He wasn’t sure why he did it – he’d try to boil it down to just being sick and tired of being in the Capitol or the fact that there was _something_ about Charles Augustus Magnussen that wasn’t right, but even Sherlock truly didn’t know his own motives – but for some reason, just before the interviews, he broke away from the safety of John, Mycroft, and Harry, and strode up to the Magnussen brothers.

“Charles Augustus Magnussen!” he called as he walked, and the brothers turned toward him – Charles Augustus grinning from ear to ear.

“William!” Charles Augustus called, as if greeting an old friend. “Did John–” he began to ask as Sherlock got close enough – about five feet away from the older man – but Sherlock cut him off.

“We both have a training score of twelve – it turns out that we are the first two tributes to score a twelve simultaneously in one year. Interesting, is it not?”

“Very,” Charles Augustus replied, a sly smile on his face.

“Am I acceptable to you as an adversary?” Sherlock asked, not even realizing the words were coming out of his mouth until it was too late.

Magnussen adjusted his glasses, watching the lens as if he was reading something, and smirked.

“Your name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you are from District Twelve, your brother is Mycroft Holmes, both of your parents are deceased, and you are asexual with a possible exception to John Watson,” he began, and Sherlock’s eyes widened at the last statement. “You have thousands of pressure points, including John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Harriet Watson, your mother, Jim Moriarty, Morphling, sex, and...my brother and me, apparently – I’m flattered. But...” he looked him over once more. “The answer is no.”

Sherlock really wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t any of that, actually – how the hell had he known about...about everything? About John – about the Morphling – and how dare he announce it in front of everyone?! Though Sherlock might’ve been asking for that, trying to approach him like this –

At that moment a Peacekeeper stepped between them to usher the Magnussen brothers to the stage, and Charles Augustus winked at Sherlock as he left, and Sherlock walked back to his family.

“What the _hell_ was that?” Mycroft asked, fuming.

“I know, right?!” Sherlock agreed, knowing how Mycroft had really meant it but trying to shift the attention away from himself. “He just – he –”

“Sherlock just got Sherlock’d,” Harry announced, astounded.

He rounded toward her. “That’s impossible –”

“But Sherlock,” John whispered, and Sherlock looked at him to find his face had paled – like he was afraid – “He knew. About everything.”

“Someone must have told him –”

“But no one knows about...” Mycroft dropped his voice, eyes darting around the room, as if everyone wasn’t staring at them already. “... _that_...except for the three of us –”

“Four of us – he told me last year while you two were here doing Hunger Games stuff,” Harry piped in. “And none of us would tell – Sherlock just got –”

“Don’t say it!” Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth. “He did not – he did _not_ –” he spun around, toward the tributes and past victors. They were staring. They were staring because they knew. Everyone knew. He searched for words – trying to get them to forget – trying to make them not write him off as an addict –

His eyes then landed on the Magnussen brothers on the backstage screen. He grit his teeth as Hannibal Magnussen opened his stupid cannibal mouth –

“No offense meant, but it should be obvious who will win, with _my_ brother in the Arena.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock said. He turned back to his team – to his family – he was looking for John – but instead found Harry’s eyes – the eyes of the girl he was trying to save. Magnussen thought he was just a drug addict, and so he didn’t see him as a threat. Maybe that would help him – or maybe that would make Magnussen think he was easy to get rid of. But if that was the case, he was going to prove him wrong. “I’m going to kill him.”

* * *

John watched as Sherlock swayed back and forth, switching the weight between his feet, staring straight ahead, almost looking as if he was dancing with nerves, just as he had done moments before the Victory Tour interview last winter. He also imagined Sherlock had done this moments before he joined the stage last year, before he saw John for the first time since he won the Games. It was a thing about Sherlock John loved – one of his favorite quirks about him – one that would never exist again after tomorrow. He desperately wanted to touch his hand – to give his boyfriend some sort of comfort – but there was no more comfort for John to give.

Nightmares of losing Sherlock had broken themselves into John’s dreaming, as of late, but really John wasn’t sure why he had been surprised the first time one had occurred. The idea of Sherlock’s loss occupied John’s every thought and feeling, and it was now extremely obvious that it was occupying Sherlock’s too, driving him mad with fright.

But he still had his little quirks. He still had his heartbeat.

“I’m absolutely pissed,” John whispered to his sister, as they stood side by side and watched the tributes from District 11 – John and Elizabeth Smallwood, with their brother, Duncan – with Caesar on the backstage screen.

“Me too.”

“I say we forget our plans to be nice little rule-followers and make them feel sorry for what they’re doing,” John suggested.

This wasn’t solely his idea – Louise had done the same when she and Archie were up there, talking with Caesar.

“How does it feel to be the youngest tribute in Hunger Games history?” he had asked Archie, but Louise had answered for him.

“Terrible,” she muttered.

“What?” Caesar asked.

“Terrible,” she repeated, louder. “It’s the worst feeling in the world.”

There was a moment as Caesar tried to spin Louise’s answer into a positive. “Well, it’s a great honor, especially if –”

“He wins?” Louise cut him off. “He’s _three._ There is no winner when there’s a three year old in the Arena, because _somebody –_ ”

She took a deep breath, trying to keep herself from crying, and Archie held her hand.

“It’s ok, Lou-Lou, don't cry –” he tried, and she smiled down at him, then looked up, glaring at Caesar.

“He’s just a boy – not even a child yet – you’re putting a _toddler_ in the _Arena.”_ She looked out into the audience – into the cameras – “There has to be someone who knows this isn’t right –”

The end-of-interview bell rang, almost a minute early.

“And that’s all the time we have with Archibald and Louise Neal give them a round of applause!” Caesar exclaimed as quickly as he could. Louise tried to speak over the roar of the audience, but her microphone had been conveniently turned off.

Obviously, Harry had been thinking about that, as well. She looked over at her brother.

“Let’s break some hearts.”

“And now, from District Twelve, Harriet Watson, and the victor of last year’s Hunger Games, John Watson!”

For the fifth time, John Watson joined Caesar Flickerman upon his stage, but this was the first time he held his little sister’s hand while doing so. They did not wave or even smile at the audience – they simply walked to the unoccupied loveseat and sat down.

“Welcome, Harriet – and welcome back, John! How are you doing, since the last time we talked?” Caesar asked, and John dropped his bomb.

“Well, my sister and my boyfriend are in the Hunger Games this year, and no matter what I'll be losing at least one of them, but I’m supposed to plaster on a bright and cheery face for you all – so you tell me, Caesar, how _am_ I doing?”

“Well...considering, you look fantastic, John,” Caesar replied, already struggling to save the show. He turned to Harry. “So, John won the Hunger Games last year, and now, Harriet Watson, here you are. Do you think you’ll follow in John’s footsteps?”

“I don’t know, Caesar,” Harry began. “I mean, I don’t even know if I want to win. My brother’s boyfriend is in this Arena – there’s a three year old in this Arena, and a ten year old. I’ve seen what winning the Games has done to a person –”

“That’s right – John’s boyfriend is in this year’s Games!” Caesar cut her off, acting as if he honestly had forgotten, even though the Watson siblings had just informed him of this fact, twice. “John, how do you feel about that?”

“I feel betrayed,” John began, and Caesar’s face fell a fraction, as if to ask, _why are you doing this to me?_

John didn’t even feel bad as he continued. “I feel like I was promised this long and happy life with the person I love, but now that’s taken away from me – from the both of us. In fact, we were all promised a long and happy life with our families, but now that’s being taken away from all of us. It doesn’t seem right, does it Caesar?”

* * *

John’s interview was cut short – the bell ringing quicker to shut him up than it did for Louise Neal. With just a look between him and his brother as they were walking out on stage, Sherlock knew that they weren’t going to play the polite and quiet Holmes boys anymore.

“Sherlock, Mycroft!” Caesar exclaimed, spreading his arms, as if greeting old friends, but Sherlock could see the gleam on his forehead – the shine of nervous sweat.

He thought that they might save him.

He was dead wrong.

* * *

John and Harry stood in front of the television backstage with the rest of the tributes and their siblings, waiting for them to be called out again, one last time, to stand together while the anthem played.

Dean Bainbridge came up behind them, clapping John on the back.

“Nice job, out there!” he exclaimed, and after briefly introducing himself to Harry, he too looked at the screen.

“Both Holmes boys against Caesar Flickerman? This ought to be good.”

* * *

“Sherlock – first of all, congratulations on your twelve! Mycroft must be so proud of you.”

“Proud is not the first word that I would use,” Mycroft replied, shrugging.

“What _is_ the first word you’d use?” Caesar asked, walking right into it.

“Well, my brother is now not only a threat to other tributes but he’s also a huge target – especially to Charles Augustus Magnussen. So, I think the first world I would use is...devastated.”

Caesar blinked slowly, but that was the only sign he was taken aback by Mycroft’s response. He turned to Sherlock. “This is the third time you’ve come up during a tribute interview – the first time with Mycroft when you were only nine years old, the second with John last year, and now you sit before us as a tribute yourself. How do you feel about that?” he asked.

“I feel like I’ve grown up on a screen, and that everyone has different opinions of me that are all completely wrong because they’re only going by what they’ve seen on television,” Sherlock said. “I don’t feel like a person, you see. I feel like...a tribute. Like I’ve always been a tribute. And now I actually am one.”

“So it seems like this is logical to you?”

“In some ways, sure. But that doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t make anything less ill-fated. If I lose, my brother will have no family left. I just got together with the person I’ve been head-over-heels in love with for nearly a decade, and now I may never see him again.”

“And we are so sorry about –”

“No you’re not –” Sherlock cut him off, anger flaring up inside him. “You’re not sorry about me or Harry or Archie Neal –”

It was at that moment that the buzzer sounded, and the crowd began to cheer Sherlock and Mycroft off the stage, but Sherlock quickly spoke, lifting his microphone closer to his mouth so the audience – so Caesar – could hear him before his microphone was turned off.

“Wait – stop – There’s one more thing I have to do – one more thing I need to say –”

Caesar, having heard him, turned to look at Sherlock, and put his hand up, silencing the audience.

“What was that?”

“There’s something I want to do – right here, right now. My life has been more or less recorded by your cameras, with and without my consent, and I think I should be able to do this, and have it recorded, too, before my life is completely taken away from me, in more ways than one.”

“And what would that would be?” Caesar asked, curious.

“I want to say good-bye to John Watson.”

* * *

John then felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin, fearing that it was Charles Augustus Magnussen, come to try to corner him again. Once he spun around and found that it was one of the other tributes – a blonde girl in her twenties, the other tribute from District 1 – he relaxed a fraction.

“Sorry – could I bother you for a moment?” she asked.

John glanced back at the Sherlock on the screen, just starting to say goodbye, and discovered that he did _not_ want to hear those words just then. They still had one last night together; John didn't want to say goodbye yet.

So he quietly asked Dean to keep an eye on his sister, and then looked at the girl, and nodded.

She then took his hand and pulled him aside, into the hallway, with a pair of double doors to separate them from the rest of the group.

“So, you too, then?” she asked, as soon as the doors were closed, and John looked at her, confused.

“Um. I don’t –” John tried, but she shook her head, a ghost of a smile on her face.

“Yes, you do, John,” she said quietly. “Because I have one, too.” And then she turned to face him, pulling down the collar of her shirt.

She had a scar on her chest – a scar of a wound that looked just like the one John himself had gotten only days ago.

John stepped back, suddenly wanting to get out of the hallway as quickly as possible. He crossed his arms over his chest, placing his fist defensively over his burn.

“...How did you know?” he asked, his mouth betraying his desire to stay quiet.

“Don’t worry – it’s covered,” she assured him. “You just...have that look about you, once you’re violated by Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

* * *

Sherlock did what Mycroft had done so many years ago, when he had wanted to speak directly to Sherlock during his first interview with Caesar Flickerman: he picked a camera, and spoke into it, as if he was speaking directly to John.

“John Watson...you keep me right, which I think is the greatest compliment I can ever give a person. You took me in when no one else would, and you took my heart along with me. You’ve always been there for me, and I wish things were different so I could always be there for you, but this is the way things are, no matter how much we hate it.”

* * *

“He’s got about a dozen fatherless children running around back home, but he likes me the most because I...get rid of my...his – our...you know,” Helen Hewlett revealed. “Everyone has tried everything to get the girls to tell who impregnated them, but he’s threatened to do so much worse if they find out it was him. I think you’re the first boy he’s gone after, though.”

“Lucky me,” John deadpanned, rolling his eyes. “How could you tell? That he had done what he did to me?”

“We all look at him the same way.”

“And how’s that?”

“Defeated. Like we want to kill him, but know we can’t.”

“Well, you could – you're going into the Arena with him tomorrow –” John said, but Helen shook her head.

“He’s going to kill me tomorrow, John,” she said, sadly.

“You know this?” he asked.

“Of course I do. If I won I could tell everyone everything with no repercussions – he can't have that happen. He won’t let me win.”

* * *

[“You have given my short life so much happiness and meaning...and I thank you for that. I hope I’ve given you happiness, too, and I hope with all my heart that you can find just as much without me. You deserve it. You deserved me, too, after everything...but life got in our way, and that is my greatest sorrow. For the first time in my life, I was looking forward to growing old. I was looking forward to dying at an old age, because I would have had you by my side. But instead, I must die like so many people have before me, and like so many others will after I do – young, alone, and scared. And on camera. Which leads me to why I’m doing this here: if you are going to have to be forced to watch me die, you should at least get a proper goodbye recorded, too, so when I’m gone you can watch it, whenever you want, and hear me when I say that I love you. I’m truly sorry that I’m not going to be around to say it in person, and I’m sorry that instead I have to say this: Goodbye, John.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zYTEb7fVdzw)

The room was silent at Sherlock’s words, and he knew a few members in the audience were crying.

“For someone who has a training score of twelve, you sound like you’ve already written yourself off,” Caesar said finally, and Sherlock turned to look at him.

“Not yet,” Sherlock replied. “But soon.”

Caesar then turned to Sherlock’s brother, as if remembering he was there. “Mycroft, you have been one of our smartest tributes – who do you think will win this year’s Hunger Games?”

Mycroft Holmes shrugged. “I believe in Sherlock Holmes.”

There was another moment, and then someone in the audience started clapping, and then that one person became a few people, and then those few people became the entire audience.

 _“I believe in Sherlock Holmes!”_ they began to shout, their voices ringing in Sherlock’s ears. _“I believe in Sherlock Holmes!”_

“It was nice to see you again, Sherlock – Mycroft,” Caesar lied, shaking their hands, and the rest of the tributes and their siblings joined the three of them on the stage. Sherlock, Mycroft, Harry, and John all joined hands for the sign off, and, looking around, Sherlock could see that quite a few of the sibling teams were doing the same. “And that’s all we have this year, folks! Who do _you_ believe will win the Seventy-Fifth Annual Hunger Games? Place your bets now, and may the odds be ever in your favor!”

* * *

John, having heard the end of Sherlock’s goodbye and of the interview as a whole, kissed Sherlock as soon as they reached the backstage area again, in front of everyone, and that was the only good part about their day. As soon as their lips parted and they looked into each other’s eyes, something in John’s head made a decision, and before he could change his mind, he was leading Sherlock back to the training center without even saying a word of goodbye to their siblings. Once they were in the stairwell, John urgently led the two of them up the stairs, pausing every few minutes to kiss Sherlock again (careful not to stop on the fifth floor), reminding himself of his end goal.

The others had not reached the penthouse by the time the two boys had arrived, which John was thankful for as he pulled Sherlock by the hand through the vacant sitting room, down the hallway, and to John’s room.

By the time John had managed to open the door and close themselves on the other side of it, he was full-on making out with Sherlock Holmes and unbuttoning his shirt as he laid his boyfriend down on his bed, not even having the time or the thought to turn on the lights. John was going to have sex with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Sherlock was going to have sex with John Watson. _Sherlock_ was going to _have sex_ with _John Watson._ He had no idea how John had read his mind, but he was thankful for it – every plan he had come up with for initiating it made him roll his eyes at how utterly stupid it seemed. But it was happening, right now – within the next few minutes, Sherlock realized as John took off Sherlock’s shirt, and Sherlock went to work trying to remove his boyfriend’s pants.

* * *

John sucked in his breath as Sherlock’s hand ghosted over the bulge in his underwear –

 _“I’m a tribute – I own everything. The Capitol – the audience – the other tributes –_ you _–”_

“You alright?” Sherlock asked, breathless from their kisses.

“Yes,” John said quickly, pushing the thought from his head. He wasn’t going to let Magnussen ruin this for them – he wasn’t going to let the Hunger Games ruin this for them, either. The only things that would matter to John tonight were within these four walls – within this bed.

* * *

John undid Sherlock’s fly and pulled his pants down from his waist, and Sherlock gripped the blanket under him. _This is it this is it this is it –_ John sat up and pulled his shirt over his head before beginning to remove the last bit of clothing from Sherlock’s body, and it was at that moment the sound of rapid tapping filled the dark room, and Sherlock’s vision began to shake.

[All it took was John’s fallen expression for Sherlock to realize his body was betraying him; he was shaking so badly his teeth were chattering.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfaeB0jZAso)

[“Are _you_ alright?” John asked, his hands removing themselves from his waistband.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfaeB0jZAso)

[ _No no no –_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfaeB0jZAso)

[“Me? Yeah – fine – I’m fine –” Sherlock tried, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. “Fine.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfaeB0jZAso)

[John backed himself off of his boyfriend, and kneeled on the bed.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfaeB0jZAso)

[“Sherlock,” he said, and just by the tone of John’s voice Sherlock knew it was over. Sherlock opened his mouth to apologize – to explain himself – to try to convince John that it was fine and he was fine and that everything was _fine_ and if he could just continue kissing him he would be able to go through with it – but John spoke first. “Do you want to go up on the roof?”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfaeB0jZAso)

* * *

A few minutes later, Sherlock and John stood, dressed in their previously discarded shirts and pants, at the edge of the roof, leaning on the chest-high barrier, looking down at the streets of the Capitol and watching its citizens – partying, naturally.

It was there that Sherlock admitted it:

“I don’t like sex.”

“Then we won’t have it,” John replied, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

“But that’s what people do, isn’t it? Have sex?” he asked. “So that’s what we should do...right?”

“We’re not like most people, Sherlock; you should know that more than anyone. We’re us – and if that means you don’t want to have sex that’s fine. We won’t.”

[“But I wanted to give you something –”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l6884fBJwf0)

[John leaned over and silenced Sherlock with a kiss. And when he spoke again, it was in a whisper, his mouth still inches from Sherlock as he looked up into his eyes.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l6884fBJwf0)

[“It doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered to me,” John promised. “You don’t need to give me anything – and if we were to, I’d rather you do it because you really wanted to, not because you thought you had to.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l6884fBJwf0)

“But I _do_ want to –”

“But you were afraid to do it.”

Sherlock nodded, turning away from John and looking down at the streets below.

[“Everyone thinks we should, so I just thought... If I pushed past the fear and just did it, you’d be happy. Everyone would.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ON3ZmYcGoZQ)

[“I wouldn’t be happy if you were just doing it for everyone but yourself. I know everyone’s been pressuring us about it, but the point is that _I’m_ not. Forget what everyone else thinks; we’ll let them think what they want to think – but we’ll know the truth. When it comes to us the sex doesn’t matter, and it never will. And that’s okay.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ON3ZmYcGoZQ)

They were silent for a few moments, listening to the sounds of celebration going on below. “It won’t matter after tomorrow, anyway,” Sherlock murmured. “That’s what I keep thinking – nothing’s going to matter after tomorrow. It’ll just be that Arena and Harry.”

“What about Magnussen?” John asked, despite himself.

“He’s just another body between Harry and the title of victor.”

“Then why were you so adamant about him seeing you as an acceptable opponent?” John asked.

“I wasn’t, not really – I just wanted to see how he saw me. He doesn't see me as the threat my training score would suggest, so I suppose that’s good,” Sherlock mused, and then smirked. “I really hope I get to see that stupid sneer fall off his stupid face.”

“Me too,” John chuckled, even though he wanted to see Sherlock kill him more than he wanted to see him die in general. He looked down at the ground as well.

[“I also...I also keep thinking that – that everyone back home wants me dead,” Sherlock admitted quietly, after a moment. “Because I’m a freak. And an asshole.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGuNOcmHj54)

[“They don’t think that,” John said, just above a whisper, looking up at Sherlock.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGuNOcmHj54)

[“Well, they should. Because I am. And now, I just wish I...I wish I could’ve been better. Let them know that I had a heart.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGuNOcmHj54)

[“You revealed on national television that you were head-over-heels in love with me when you thought that I was going to die, unafraid of the consequences. You loved me at my worst moments. Christ – you’re giving your life for my sister. If that doesn’t prove it to them I don’t know what will. And you know if anyone says a bad word about you I’ll tell them exactly where they can shove it.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGuNOcmHj54)

Sherlock chuckled, and then fell silent.

“I wanted...I just wanted to apologize. To you, at least. For being such an asshole all the time,” Sherlock whispered.

“You were never that to me.”

“What was I, then?”

[“You were always just Sherlock Holmes,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rytq1WKLkjQ) John replied, and Sherlock chuckled again, rolling his eyes. They stood in the near-quiet of the night for another few moments. “I hate this,” John finally said.

“Me too.”

[“We should’ve gotten away while we could’ve,” John whispered.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zN-VmYRyB6A)

[“No,” Sherlock whispered back. “I’m not running anymore.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zN-VmYRyB6A) He looked up at John. “Also, I just wanted to say that...”

“Yes?” John coaxed, and Sherlock sighed.

“I...I want you to know that...after everything, if you happen to find someone else –”

John shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”

“I’m just saying that it’s alright if you find someone else –”

“I don’t _want_ anyone else, Sherlock,” John said, the lights below reflecting in his tearful eyes. “You are the best man, the most human...human being that I’ve ever known, and no one will ever come close to measuring up to you. Before you, I was so alone, and I owe you so much. After you, Sherlock, I won’t be able to find anyone else.” He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s again. “I’d rather have you.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, trying to find a counter argument but failing. Finally, he gave in.

“...Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how often I'm gonna post chapters, I just know that I really like hearing the comments XD
> 
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	17. Goodbyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, here's a chapter! :D  
> So, two things:  
> 1) I went through Sentiment and what I've posted on Constantly and added youtube links to the songs that either inspired scenes that I've written or specific lines or what made me think of characters or moments within the story, so if you're interested in it all you have to do is click the link and it'll pull up the video, so that's cool, I think :)  
> 2) I was rereading this chapter for one last editing session before I posted this and I cried, so...good luck. ;)

After a night of trying and failing and trying some more to sleep, Sherlock woke up in his own bed, shaking like a leaf and sweating buckets.

It was today, he realized as three Peacekeepers filed into his bedroom – two guarding the door, and one presenting Sherlock with a white shirt, white sweatpants, and white briefs to get changed into.

“Today you are to be delivered to the Arena for the Hunger Games,” he said. “Get dressed into these, and we’ll escort you onto the roof to travel to the Arena.”

Sherlock looked down at the clothes in his outstretched hand, and slowly his body moved to retrieve it. The cotton fabric felt foreign to him, but he held onto it for dear life and somehow made it to the bathroom even though he couldn’t exactly remember moving his feet there.

He glanced in the mirror, and found the definition of petrified staring back at him. In a flash, he unfolded the shirt and draped it over the mirror, like he had seen John do so many times in the past year. But John had covered his reflection because he couldn’t live with what he had done – Sherlock had no idea why he was covering his – he guessed he just didn’t want to be subject to it.

The water droplets from the shower held no temperature no matter where Sherlock put the dial – the only way he could really tell that the water was cold was by the fact that there was no steam in the room when he got out.

John’s Hunger Games lasted nine days.

Mycroft’s? A little less than a week.

The average, though – that was a week. Seven days.

Sherlock had anywhere between a few hours and a week to live.

When he finally pulled his shirt down from the mirror, he looked his reflection in the eye, and reminded himself of his mission: [“Save Harry Watson.” That was his job – that was his only task in that Arena. Nothing else mattered – not even his own life, he thought, touching his fingers to the dog tags around his neck: John’s dog tags from last year, with a small modification.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LkRLLOTnp_o)

[But his body was betraying him, just as it had last night with John. He was shaking, fighting back tears – he was afraid. He was always able to divorce himself from emotion – from feelings – but then there was John, and his feelings for John. And now there was him, staring into the face of death, and his fear.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LkRLLOTnp_o)

_“I know everything there is to know, about everything, with a single glance. I even know who will win the Hunger Games this year.”_

_“And who would that be?”_

_“You?”_

_“Harriet. Catherine. Watson.”_

_“Do you think so?”_

_“I know so.”_

_“And you’re sure?”_

_“One-hundred percent. Harriet Watson wins the Hunger Games. End of discussion,”_ he had said, and then he had stormed out of the room, the brother of the Ice Man, of the East Wind.

“Save. Harry. Watson,” he reminded himself again, and strode out of the room, again taking a page out of his brother’s book.

He was the Ice Man’s brother. If Mycroft could do it, so could he.

* * *

John stood outside of President Snow’s office, wringing his hands, dressed in his nicest suit, waiting for Mycroft to emerge. He checked his watch again – it was eight-thirty – ninety minutes until the Games began. At this point, Sherlock and Harry would be in the Aircraft, flying circles around Panem in an attempt to make the tributes feel like they were farther away from home than they actually were. Any second, now, some Peacekeeper would be injecting Sherlock and Harry with their tracking device, turning them into two number twelves in a long line of number twelves – one that had John Watson and Mary Morstan added to the list at exactly this moment last year.

As John pulled his sleeve back over the watch face, Mycroft opened the door and stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him, not speaking until the door clicked closed.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” John said, waving him off. “Well?”

“We’re in. We’ll be with our own siblings in the launch room to start, and we’ll trade off at nine-thirty.”

“Yes!” John exclaimed, and in a moment of happiness, he hugged Sherlock’s brother. Mycroft squeezed John back, and something in John knew that, when Sherlock was gone, John would be on the receiving end of a lot of Mycroft’s hugs.

“We should get to the roof; we’ll be joining the stylists and preparation teams on their hovercraft, which will be taking off any minute.”

They reached the hovercraft just in time, and were surprised to see Louise sitting in one of the seats, wiping away tears. She looked up upon their arrival, and she lifted her shaking hand in a wave that never looked so sad. John and Mycroft sat beside her, John on her left, and Mycroft on her right.

“You too?” she asked.

“Us too,” Mycroft replied.

“I – I met with President Snow last night. He almost didn’t let me – because of what I had said during the interview –”

“He gave me trouble, too.”

She glared down at her hands folded on her lap, and Mycroft held onto one, and John held onto the other.

“He – he said he was feeling _kind_...but he’s still putting him out there...”

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, unsure how to say anything else. What could he possibly say at a time like this?

Louise looked up at him.

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

* * *

“Ten minutes until landing.”

Sherlock scratched idly at the injection spot in his arm, rubbing his fingers over the bump the tracking device made in his skin. For a moment, he briefly considered the absolutely impossible idea of escaping the Arena. If he could get this bean-sized thing out of his arm – if he found a place to hide from the cameras to extract it – he could get out of there. That was his theory, at least. There was a force field of some sort around the Arena – that was the only logical thing he could think of keeping the tributes in but still allowing the Capitol to pass in and out without trouble. The trackers kept them in – hurt them if they got out.

John was lucky last year – his Arena was on a raised platform. The only way to get to the force field was finding a way around the anti-drop technology that they also put around the tribute buildings to keep the tributes from committing suicide by jumping off the side. But not everyone was so lucky – there had been times where the tributes were either paralyzed or straight up killed over simply touching the barrier.

Sherlock would not be one of those people. If he could, he’d stay as close to the center of the Arena as he could. If he could, he’d take the Cornucopia, but that was a stupid thing to think – so stupid – if anyone took the Cornucopia, it would be the Career tributes, not him.

As he thought of this, he held Archibald Neal’s hand – he had made sure the two seats on either side of him were open for the boy and [Harry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MbCeyb9okac). As soon as a Peacekeeper came around to him with the giant needle that contained the tracking device, Archie had gripped onto his hand, and he hadn’t let go since. He had been talking and crying ever since lift-off, but Sherlock was only present for part of the conversation.

“Serlock?” he asked, and Sherlock looked over at him.

“Yeah?”

“Do we get to go home if we lose?” he asked, very quietly, the innocence drained from his voice, and Sherlock, knowing that Archie was on his way to truly knowing the answer, told him the truth.

“No,” he replied, just as quietly. “We don’t.”

He looked to Harry on his other side. From the moment she sat next to him on the hovercraft, their fingers interlocked and they held on to each other for dear life.

That’s all they could do – there was nothing more they could say. [This was the end, Sherlock kept thinking as the hovercraft landed and the tributes were ushered by four Peacekeepers each out and into the catacombs – into the stockyards. They were walking the plank, marching to their deaths, all of them – and there was nothing they could to do about it.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MyipBcJlNdA)

One of Sherlock’s Peacekeepers opened the door to the launch room, and Sherlock found Mycroft Holmes, standing before a table filled with food, with an empty plate in front of him.

Sherlock breathed his brother’s name as he ran into his arms, hugging him as the Peacekeepers closed the door.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered back. Sherlock could have sworn his voice was wet, but when they finally broke apart, Mycroft was back to being his usual all-business self. “Sit. Eat,” he said, gesturing to the chair across the table, and Sherlock obeyed, hands still shaking as he filled his plate. “You should –”

“Eat enough to where I won’t be hungry but not a lot so I can still run for my life without getting sick, I know,” Sherlock cut him off.

There was a silence as Sherlock took his first bite; a silence that Mycroft broke.

“How was last night?”

“None of your business,” Sherlock replied quickly, mouth full of food.

“You made it my business when you asked me where you could find condoms, Brother Mine,” Mycroft reminded him.

Sherlock swallowed the food that was in his mouth. “Well, if you _must_ know, nothing happened. And we’re both okay with that,” he said. “We’re both really okay with that.”

“I bet you wished you had listened to me when I suggested –”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock cut him off again. “But I didn’t, and I don’t know if that makes things better or worse, but it doesn’t matter now – I can’t change the past, and that’s on me.”

“Telling me I was right wouldn’t go amiss here,” Mycroft said, half of a smile playing at his lips.

“Not a chance,” Sherlock replied with a smirk that quickly faded. “Let him know, would you? When I’m gone, tell him that I wanted to, you know...”

“I know.”

* * *

“I have half the mind to throw this shit across the room,” Harry Watson told her brother. She pointed at a bowl of oatmeal. “That especially. I’d love to see the kind of mess it would make.”

“They’d hate you,” John said quietly from across the table.

“Let them,” Harry muttered, grabbing a spoon and plunging it into the bowl of food. “Honestly, I don’t see how they expect us to eat all this shit at a time like this, anyway.” And with that, she flung the stuff onto the door’s window.

“Nice aim,” John said.

“It must be a Watson thing. Mom’s side – Dad doesn’t really aim, he sort of just fires,” Harry replied, tossing a sunny-side-up egg up to the ceiling. It landed perfectly, but only stuck for a moment before falling down into the plate of bacon. “I didn’t think that would actually stick,” she admitted.

“You should probably eat something – you don’t know what you’ll get out there.”

In response, Harry grabbed a biscuit and shoved as much as she could unceremoniously into her mouth. The part she couldn’t fit she threw to the floor, and stepped on.

She then turned her attention to her previously untouched butter knife.

“Nothing is sharp in this room,” she informed John, after a moment.

“Harry –” John started, eyes widening.

“That came out wrong – I want to cut my hair,” she announced.

“Cut your hair? You haven’t wanted to cut your hair since you were –”

“You remember that girl from District Nine?” she asked, cutting him off. “The one Mycroft showed us, back when we didn’t know who was going in – not Louise Neal but the other one – Amanda Hawkins? Remember how her hair snarled in the branches and she almost got killed because of that? I don’t want to be that girl – if I’m going to lose, it’s not going to be because of my hair. Do you have anything to cut this with?” she asked, taking a lock of her hair between her two fingers and scrutinizing it.

“I don’t, and I know you don’t either,” John said, and she looked up at him, confused.

“Well, duh, all I have is this.” She gestured to the white t-shirt and sweat pants she donned.

John nodded toward the bathroom. “Get dressed, then we’ll talk.”

* * *

Sherlock looked himself over in the bathroom mirror. “They’re just rubbing it in our faces, now,” he called out to his brother.

“I know,” Mycroft replied. “I tried to convince them to put you in a darker shade, but they wanted you to match John’s iris.”

It matched, alright. Two things were obvious – the first being everyone had matching jumpsuits, with one difference: where there was wasn’t black, there was a color reserved for each player. The second obvious thing was the fact that it was a jumpsuit – waterproof, skin tight – water was going to be unavoidable in this Arena. And if Sherlock hadn’t figured it out by the time he saw them, the goggles would have helped him in his deduction immensely.

He pulled on the lilac knee-high boots, designed to not only let him swim but run through wooded terrain, hid his dog tags under the wetsuit, keeping the cold steel against his chest, and emerged from the bathroom to face his brother. He had expected laughter, but was greeted with silence as Mycroft looked him over.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, and Mycroft shook his head.

“I was just...thinking about how you aren’t so young, anymore.”

“Well, it’s like you always said – the Games age you. I’m getting the full treatment.”

Mycroft smiled his saddest tight-lipped smile, and then his face returned to its serious state as he pulled his hands from behind his back – one hand holding his umbrella, per usual, and the other held a lilac backpack to match Sherlock’s jumpsuit.

“I take it that’s mine?” Sherlock asked, pointing at the bag.

“Yes – we’re doing things a little bit differently this year. This bag holds your survival supplies – food, water, a jacket, a small medical kit, etcetera. Your bag lacks weapons – those will only be provided once you’re in the Arena. That’s all I’m allowed to say,” he concluded, holding out the pack for Sherlock to take.

The youngest of the Holmes brothers took two steps forward, reached out and took the bag, and the eldest closed the distance between them, bringing his brother into a tight embrace.

“I guess the East Wind came to get me, after all,” Sherlock murmured, after a minute.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sighed. “It’s been here all along.”

Sherlock took a step back to get a better look at his brother.

“Hm?”

[“The East Wind...it has us all. You’re just old enough to see it, now.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPvKJQ8jJz0)

“I don’t understand –”

“Our parents...” Mycroft started, and Sherlock shut his mouth immediately, taken aback. Mycroft hadn’t spoken about their parents since he returned from the Arena. “...Our mother and father always wanted a little girl – a daughter. They had a name picked out and everything. Then I was born – I was a boy, and they were content for about six years, and then they decided to try again for their girl. Then you were born, and you were also a boy, and so they tried again shortly after. Apparently, third time was the charm, because our mother finally gave birth to the daughter that our parents had always dreamed of – little Eurus Holmes.”

“Eurus?” Sherlock repeated, and Mycroft nodded.

“Eurus. Of course, you don’t remember her – you were only a year old at the time, but I was eight – I remember everything about her. Unfortunately, though, she was born prematurely; she didn’t last the night. Do you happen to know what the name Eurus means?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, but gave up when he remembered just how little time they had – not enough time to really search his mind palace for the answer to such a trivial question.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You tell me.”

“Literally, it means ‘god of the East Wind.’”

Sherlock nodded, and then looked up at his brother. [“So you made our sister into a childhood monster?”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRjjw-pRg4Y)

[“Not exactly,” Mycroft replied. “It was...what I felt, the best way to prepare you.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRjjw-pRg4Y)

[“Prepare me?” Sherlock repeated. “For what?”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRjjw-pRg4Y)

[“For this,” Mycroft said. “Maybe not for this moment in particular, but for this life. The East Wind was never a monster, not really – it was death itself. It was plans gone awry. It was having hopes and dreams and watching them fall apart right in front of you. It was the inevitable life that we would both soon be a part of. You see, I was old enough to understand that the Games were happening and what it meant for us when you still had no idea. I was petrified that if I told you straight off about what life had in store for you – for the both of us...”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRjjw-pRg4Y)

[Sherlock thought back to all the times Mycroft _had_ been blunt – he was basically blunt about everything that Sherlock could think of – his earliest memory was of his brother telling him that knowledge was the only important thing in this life – why hadn’t he been brutally honest about this?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRjjw-pRg4Y)

[“I’d panic,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRjjw-pRg4Y) Sherlock guessed.

“I thought you would hide within yourself; go to a place where I couldn’t reach you. Fearing that outcome, I didn’t know how else to tell you that your perfect world wasn’t going to last, and that things were going to change and that people were going to die, and there was nothing anyone could do to change that, so I just said –”

“‘The East Wind is coming for you,’” they said together, and Mycroft sighed.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s...it’s okay,” Sherlock murmured. “You...you did okay,” he said, louder, and Mycroft chuckled, shaking his head. “You were great.”

“No, I wasn’t, little brother.”

Sherlock didn’t need to think too hard to know exactly what his brother was talking about – the one time Sherlock retracted so far within himself that Mycroft didn’t even know he was lost until it was too late – until –

“John got me out.”

“He did. John Watson was able to pull you out of a lot of dark places that I wasn’t able to find you in; I’ll owe him for that for the rest of my life.”

There was a silence as Sherlock mulled over Mycroft’s words, and then he thought of a question he had never been able to ask, before then.

“How come you didn’t know?” Sherlock asked. “About the Morphling? You always picked up on everything but you were never able to deduce that I was...”

Mycroft watched his brother as he trailed off, his eyes sad and thoughtful, thinking back to that time in his life.

“I was too focused on other things to see it,” he admitted. “And I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry I didn’t see. I tried so hard to protect you, even when you were just a child –”

“But sometimes you can’t.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed, and sighed again. “They would’ve been so proud of you,” he whispered, almost as if it was just an afterthought, but Sherlock knew that anything involving their parents was far from an afterthought.

Sherlock nodded, and said the most sentimental thing he could muster. “Of us.”

Mycroft gave him another tight-lipped smile, and adjusted his pack’s straps on his brother’s shoulders. Mycroft then checked his watch.

“It’s nine twenty-five,” he announced. “I’m going to leave and John’s going to come in to...to see you off. But before I go – before you go out there...” he placed both of his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, making sure that Sherlock was listening closely. “You are so very smart, Sherlock Holmes. You must _understand_ that _I believe in you_.”

Afraid that his voice would betray the tears he was fighting back, Sherlock Holmes nodded curtly, and Mycroft nodded back, and, to hide his bottom lip’s sudden quiver, Mycroft kissed his brother’s forehead.

“Godspeed, little brother,” he said. “The world will never be the same without you.”

And then, before Sherlock could think of a response, he was gone.

* * *

John and Mycroft met halfway between Sherlock and Harry’s holding rooms.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked upon seeing John.

[Shit, was it that obvious that he had been crying? He had tried not to – he had tried to keep it together as best he could, but when Harry had tried to make light of their goodbye (“Please don’t start crying, because if _you_ start crying then _I’ll_ start crying, and it’ll just be a huge fucking mess and nobody wants that,” she had joked, with tears falling down her cheeks anyway,) John let out a single burst of laughter before he too dissolved into tears.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJ3Ia5nHhcY)

“Are _you?”_ John asked, deflecting Mycroft’s question.

“Absolutely not,” Mycroft replied, and at that moment they were close enough to where John could see that Mycroft had indeed cried at some point within the last half hour – actually, seeing now that tears in Mycroft’s eyes were threatening to spill over, he made a deduction of his own: Mycroft had been able to hold himself together whilst in the room with Sherlock, but now that he was gone, now that the goodbye was over, it was taking everything in him to keep his composure. “How was she?” he asked, changing the subject. “Harriet?”

“More pissed than I’ve ever seen her before,” John replied. “Normally she’s loud when she’s mad but just now...”

“She was quiet, I assume? Completely unlike herself?”

“Yeah – how’d you know?” John asked.

“Sherlock and I had played deductions with the two of you after I returned from the Arena, after we all met. Sherlock had said she was one to get loud when she was angry, but I added when she’s livid she becomes dangerously quiet. Turns out that we were both correct.”

“How is he? Sherlock?” John asked, his heart leaping with anxiety at the sound of his name.

“Terrified.”

[And when John Watson stepped into Sherlock’s room, he found Sherlock Holmes, standing in his lilac swimsuit, tears rolling down his cheeks.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-uXtxKXkb8)

[But this was not Sherlock Holmes, though, not really. This was not the brilliant man he had fallen in love with – this was not the young man who sent John the flower this time last year, or the man who danced with him on top of fish in the Capitol. This was a shell of Sherlock – the broken boy in the bread shop who John first felt inclined to talk to – the broken boy with needle marks in his arms whose life John had saved. But John could not save this broken boy anymore.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-uXtxKXkb8)

[John crossed the room and brought Sherlock into his arms, and Sherlock wept into John’s shoulder.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-uXtxKXkb8) After an eternity, Sherlock spoke, his voice contorted by his sobs.

“I know I’ve said breathing’s boring but that didn’t mean I ever wanted to stop,” he said, and John was taken aback by how poetic he could be even through tears.

And John had nothing to say – nothing that could comfort him, nothing that could ever bring peace to his boyfriend’s heart.

So he said, “I know.”

“I never meant for this to happen –”

“I know.”

“– and I’m gonna protect Harry, I will – I just –”

“I know.”

“– I hate this so fucking much –”

“I know, Sherlock, I know.”

* * *

All too soon, the announcement went over the intercom: two minutes until launch, all tributes stand on their launch plate. It was then Sherlock let go of John, pressing his hands into his eyes, trying to keep more of his tears from streaming out.

“I’m sorry – I’m sorry –”

“Don’t, Sherlock. It’s okay.”

Sherlock removed his hands from his eyes and looked up at John. “I’ll protect Harry –”

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, and then pressed his forehead to his. “I love you so much,” he whispered, and Sherlock nodded. “Don’t you forget that when you’re in there – it’s hard, trust me it’s so hard to remember that shit when you’re in there – but don’t forget it, don’t you ever forget it. Alright?”

“Okay,” he murmured.

“Go stand on the platform,” John ordered gently, pulling himself away from Sherlock, and Sherlock obliged.

“One minute until launch.”

“I’m scared,” Sherlock finally admitted. “John, I’m scared –”

“It’s okay to be scared. You told me last year – fear is wisdom in the face of danger, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Right?”

Sherlock nodded, vaguely remembering. He shouldn’t be scared – he was never scared – but he was, and since he was, his mind was a mess. [Suddenly, he looked at John, his voice urgent as he spoke.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGF7PswOENQ)

[“I love you – I never said it enough but I do – I’ve always loved you – since the beginning – I fell in love with you within five minutes of meeting you –”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGF7PswOENQ)

[John smirked at his words.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGF7PswOENQ)

[“Of course you did,” he breathed, as if cursing himself that he hadn’t thought of that before, when he should of – that five minutes’ conversation was all it took for Sherlock to fall in love –](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGF7PswOENQ)

[“Did you know?” Sherlock asked, desperate and, slowly, John nodded.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGF7PswOENQ)

[“Yeah, I think I knew. I think I knew the whole time.” John replied, and as soon as the words passed his lips, the glass barrier appeared between them. Sherlock pressed his hand against the barrier, and John put his hand against the barrier too, so there was nothing but the thick sheet of glass separating them.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGF7PswOENQ)

[Sherlock stared at their hands, and then looked up at John, and Sherlock’s breath caught as he looked into John’s eyes, as everything became too real for him to handle: this was happening, he was in the Games, he was going to die –](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGF7PswOENQ)

[“Goodbye John,” Sherlock whispered, knowing that John couldn’t hear him.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGF7PswOENQ)

[The elevator began to rise.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGF7PswOENQ)

[John wiped his tears from his face. “Goodbye Sherlock,” he whispered back, and Sherlock knew that he knew that Sherlock could read his lips, and then the elevator hid him from sight, swallowing the tribute into darkness.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGF7PswOENQ)

Sherlock gripped the dog tags through his wetsuit to calm him down.

He had to do this. He had no choice.

After a few moments of moving upward, the ceiling opened up above Sherlock, and Sherlock let go of the dog tags as he rose out from the ground. The Cornucopia was in front of him, and all he could see were weapons – were there any food or supplies there at all? He didn’t want to make the journey over to find out.

Two tributes – Janine Hawkins and Robert Frankland – were on either side of him. There was a small platform in front of Sherlock, just out of reach, that held a sword – Mycroft’s sword, or so it looked like. Everywhere – surrounding him on all sides – was water, rocking and swaying and licking the sides of Sherlock’s platform.

As the timer ticked down, an announcement came over the intercom.

“As you may have noticed, tributes, an exact replica of your victor sibling’s weapon of choice is before you. You may continue their legacy and use their chosen weapon, create your own and take a weapon from the Cornucopia, or take as many weapons as you can carry! Choose wisely, and Happy Hunger Games!”

“Ten...”

That was stupid – that was so stupid – putting their sibling’s lives and chance of survival in their hands without them even knowing it – years in advance –

“...Nine...”

Of course he would take his brother’s sword – it was sturdy and strong and not to mention _right in front of him_ –

“...Eight...”

Sherlock glanced up, trying to find Harry. His eyes passed over Charles Augustus Magnussen, who had a curved knife on the platform before him – Sherlock vaguely remembered seeing his brother use it in his Games’ recording – that’s all he needed though – because after that Hannibal Lecter Magnussen used his _teeth_ –

“...Seven...”

He found Harry, dressed in red, just a few spots away on his right, poised to run to the platform and into the water. She wasn’t looking at John’s knives, though – Sherlock followed her gaze and found her eyeing up a bow and arrow set in the Cornucopia –

 “...Six...”

Could Harry even swim? Sherlock had no idea how to swim – he and John had found a pond once beyond District Twelve’s fence when they were fifteen – John had stripped off his clothes and learned, but Sherlock – he had been too embarrassed – he was in love with John and he was too nervous to take off his clothes –

“...Five...”

[Harry seemed so sure of herself – like she knew exactly what to do once she hit the water.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmjiI62U-Pw) If Sherlock wanted to keep Harry safe he was going to have to learn to swim – and fast.

“...Four...”

Mycroft Holmes had always pretended that he was the East Wind, when they were children. He’d stomp around their poor excuse for a house, Sherlock squealing and racing on toddling legs to hide behind his mother’s dress.

 _“The Eeeeeeeast Wiiiiiind! The East Wind is coooooming!”_ Mycroft would call in his spookiest voice, pretending he didn’t know where exactly where his brother was. _“It’s coming for you, Sherlock! Sherloooooock Hooooooolmes!”_

“...Three...”

But there was one day – Sherlock was four or five at the time, and Mycroft was eleven or twelve – when Mycroft added a new line to his speech:

_“The East Wind is coming for you, Sherlock! What will you do?!”_

“...Two...”

There had been a moment of bravery in Sherlock’s young heart, and he leaped out of his hiding place (behind the curtain that separated his bed from the rest of the tiny house), and Sherlock would never forget his own words.

_“I’ll meet it when it does!”_

“...One.”

[The East Wind was finally here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqGuJxaysS0)

[The Game was on.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqGuJxaysS0)


	18. Sink Or Swim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THE BLOODBAAAATH!!! So, trigger warning: child death/murder, because there is a three year old and a ten year old in the Arena. Super non-detailed, besides "there was blood" and a quick description of what was done.  
> HAVE FUN, KIDDOS!

[Sherlock reached out and grabbed the sword in front of him, and then he was surrounded by the sounds of splashing – the sound of tributes hurling themselves into the water.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dqeOGrxZJnM)

He heard a cry from his right, and he glanced over, past Janine Hawkin’s empty podium, to find Margaret Patterson falling into the water, her hand holding her neck, red blood staining her hot-pink-and-black jumpsuit. The spot to Margaret’s right held her killer – getting ready to toss another hunting knife at another tribute – James Sholto.

“SERLOCK!”

Sherlock whipped around, and there, between two empty platforms almost nearly clear across from Sherlock, only just a little to his left, stood Archie Neal, in a blaringly yellow wetsuit, holding his stuffed mouse, huddling into himself, as if he was trying to hide, glancing between Sherlock and the mess at the Cornucopia.

“I can’t swim!” he cried.

“I’m coming!” Sherlock yelled back.

He pulled his goggles over his eyes and took a deep breath, desperately trying to remember the way John Watson had swam in the pond that day so he could copy the movements – reminding himself that the human body was made to float in water –

[And he dived head-first into the water surrounding him.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dNSVNKorFn8)

It was time to either sink or swim.

* * *

John bit his knuckle, watching the screen as he, the stylists, Mycroft, and Louise were flown back to the Capitol. He watched [his sister grab John’s knives and swim the best she could toward the Cornucopia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmjiI62U-Pw) as Joseph Lee was killed by Steven Bainbridge. [He watched as Sherlock dived into the water and began to move toward Archie Neal.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MTBD2Dr_2Jg) He watched as Charles Augustus Magnussen made his way to the Cornucopia.

As soon as Magnussen climbed up onto the embankment and stood up, he came face-to-face with Helen Hewlett, and John watched as Magnussen raised his brother’s knife, slit her throat, and pushed her into the water, sneering. He turned around to get punched in the face by Elizabeth Smallwood, and he responded only by stabbing her in the chest.

 

* * *

Sherlock was only just getting the hang of swimming.

The sword and the pack dragged him down and made him slower than he liked, but he was able to move in a straight line and come up for air, which is what counted.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt a hand grab at his head, a fist clenching in his curls and pulling him off course. The next second, another arm closed in around his throat and two legs wrapped themselves around his waist.

 _I can’t die – not now,_ Sherlock thought, gritting his teeth, swinging his sword wildly around him, slowly slicing the large metal object through the water. _Not during the fucking bloodbath –_

And then, after a few moments of struggling, the pressure was off of him, and Sherlock opened his eyes to find streams of red within the blue of the water – blood.

He quickly flailed the other tribute – his dead or wounded assailant – off of him, and made his way back to the surface.

His head broke the surface of the water and Sherlock gasped for air, coughing and sputtering and opening his eyes to find –

A dead body, floating right beside him, with an arrow sticking out of his back.

[Shocked, he looked up and around to find Harry Watson watching Sherlock from the ledge the Cornucopia stood upon, a bow and a sheath of arrows in hand. It was his job to save Harry Watson – but she had just saved him.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vZMV1M8gID4)

She kneeled down, reaching for him, and he waved her off.

“Go! Go to the shore! I’ll catch up!” Sherlock called to her, and [Harry only gave him a nod in reply before she jumped back into the water and started to swim away from the commotion.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G4P7n6gFnU4)

With Harry somewhat safe for the moment, Sherlock returned his attention to –

“SERLOCK! HOMES!” Archie yelled, and Sherlock plunged back into the water, trying to swim and trying to drag his sword toward the youngest tribute the Hunger Games ever had.

The moment Sherlock reached Archie’s platform, Archie pointed at his assigned weapon – an ax the size of the boy’s entire body.

“It’s too heavy,” Archie said as Sherlock pulled himself up onto the platform.

“That’s okay –” Sherlock replied, crouching down before the boy. “Come on – on my back –” he ordered, and as Archie scrambled onto his back, Sherlock kept watch to make sure no one was paying any attention to them. He had no idea how he was going to carry the weight of this boy and of the sword in the water, but he had to try. “I want you to hold on tight, okay?”

“Okey.”

* * *

“Oh, and there goes Sebastian Wilkes, a fine kill by Charles Augustus Magnussen! And Julia Waters and Robin Heaney are still going at it – oh! _Oh!_ They are both in the water, now; Robin is wounded, Julia is being strangled –”

John watched as Harry, Sherlock, and Archie made their way toward shore, gripping onto Mycroft’s and Louise’s hands.

“No one’s coming up...oh! Robin Heaney’s off the grid! And Julia Waters is now swimming back to shore, having won the fight!” Caesar narrated for the viewers.

“That’s eight so far,” Mycroft muttered.

John’s eyes broke away from the screen to look up at him. “Eight? Already? That’s almost how many we lost during my bloodbath.”

“And they’re not even done yet,” Louise added as Charles Augustus killed Abigail Reeves, who was dressed in silver, as if the Capitol was making sure everyone knew she was the oldest tribute in the Games.

In fact, it seemed as if a lot of the colors of the swimsuits chosen by the Gamemakers had some sort of meaning behind it. Harry’s was red because of her hair, Sherlock’s was lilac because of the iris that started it all, Julia Waters’ was blue because of her name, Magnussen’s was black because it matched his soul –

But that was just John’s thinking; the Gamemakers probably didn’t know the depth of his repulsive nature.

The Cornucopia was emptying out, now – Magnussen and James were guarding it while Aurora Blake, Steven Bainbridge, and Julia Waters were chasing after the others. At this point, six people had reached land and were racing their way through the Arena on foot, except for Harry, who was waiting for Sherlock and Archie to arrive.

But as soon as Sherlock was able to stand up in the water, the Cornucopia began to spin, and a giant wave began to form. 

* * *

Harry glanced behind Sherlock and gasped.

“Shit – RUN –”

And that was the last thing Sherlock heard from Harry before the water hit him and Archie, sending them toppling, rolling them through the water, completely knocking the wind out of Sherlock –

And then, just as quickly as it came, it was gone, leaving Sherlock halfway into a jungle’s bush, covered in small cuts and bruises and coughing up water.

Once he figured out which way was up, he got to his feet, looking around, and found Archie, spitting up water about ten feet away, back toward the shore.

Sherlock dashed to Archie’s side and was helping the boy up when he saw his sword beginning to be pulled back into the water – as if the artificial ocean the Capitol had created had a personal vendetta against it – against Sherlock –

“Stay –” Sherlock managed to say to Archie before he sprinted after the sword – his sword – Mycroft’s sword – and put his fingers around the hilt just before it slid from his reach.

Harry was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

“Sherlock...” John heard Mycroft whisper from beside him, almost as if he wanted to reprimand him for going after the sword. They watched as Sherlock ran back over to Archie, swung the boy onto his back again, and, checking one more time for Harry Watson, sprinted off.

The wave had been so big it had pushed Harry, but not nearly as far as it had Sherlock and Archie. In fact, it had tried to take her back into the water, but Harry was having none of it. As soon as she got her bearings, she went straight into the jungle ahead of her, about seventy feet away from where Sherlock and Archie had been.

Moments after Harry vanished into the jungle, Duncan Smallwood was found, and killed.

“That’s ten.”

* * *

Sherlock ran – he did not stop running, plowing through the branches and leaves and grass as if they were nothing. Archie Neal bounced on Sherlock’s back, his chin hitting his shoulder every couple of steps.

“Hold on – Hold on –” Sherlock begged the child, and he wrapped his tiny arms even tighter around Sherlock’s neck.

Breathing was getting hard – his legs were starting to hurt – but he kept running – he had to keep Archie safe – find Harry – and –

_BOOM!_

Sherlock skidded to a halt.

The Bloodbath was over.

* * *

Margaret Patterson, 44, District 10.

Joseph Lee, 63, District 5.

Ten tributes were killed in all – almost half of the tributes were gone within the first ten minutes of the Games. Nine people lost their siblings in ten minutes. Caesar Flickerman went through the names excitedly, as if a record had been broken, and all John could do was stare in shock. As the names were called, their deaths were quickly recapped.

Helen Hewlett, 25, District 1.

Elizabeth Smallwood, 37, District 11.

Helen had been right – there was no way that she was going to win the Games with Charles Augustus Magnussen as a competitor, but John had sort of been glad to see that Elizabeth Smallwood had punched him in the face, even if the action directly led her to her death.

Thomas Birch, 14, District 8.

Bradley Carter, 67, District 6.

As Thomas Birch’s name was announced and added to the death toll, the recap showed Harry Watson grabbing a bow and arrows and shooting one of them at his lime green swim suit as he tried to drown Sherlock. His sister killed someone in the bloodbath – to save Sherlock.

Sebastian Wilkes, 10, District 3.

Robin Heaney, 39, District 3.

Ten were dead. That left five careers – Steven Bainbridge, Julia Waters, James Sholto, Aurora Blake, and Charles Augustus Magnussen – and that left nine other tributes, three of which were Sherlock, Harry, and Archie.

Abigail Reeves, 79, District 7.

Duncan Smallwood, 38, District 11.

But Sherlock and Harry and Archie were alive – they had made it through the bloodbath, which was the hardest to survive. They were alive.

* * *

Sherlock and Archie listened to the cannons burst in rapid succession, one right after the other. Archie kept count, saying the words slowly out loud, like the teachers at school always did with the toddlers.

“One...”

_BOOM!_

“Two...”

_BOOM!_

“Three...”

Archie kept counting, quietly, as Sherlock kneeled down and Archie climbed off his back. Sherlock started getting antsy by the eighth cannon blast – how many people had died?

_BOOM!_

“Nine...”

_BOOM!_

“Ten!”

And then, silence.

Ten. Ten people had died during the Bloodbath. But the Bloodbath was over, now, and they had survived.

Archie was watching Sherlock, anxiously waiting for him to make the next move. Sherlock’s next move, though, was simple: smile.

His grin was genuine, and when he breathed out a sigh of relief, it came out like a chuckle. He did it again, another chuckle escaping his lips.

And, slowly, a grin stretched across Archie’s face, too.

In moments, the both of them had dissolved into quiet laughter, and Archie even started bouncing up and down where he stood.

“We did it we did it!” Archie cheered quietly in a sing-song voice, spinning around as he jumped.

Sherlock didn’t even have the pessimism to tell him that no, they were in fact very far from “did it”, or that they at the very least needed to find Harry Watson in the Arena; he didn’t even care that they still had a long way to go – they had survived the Bloodbath – easily the hardest part of the Games to survive. They should be allowed to celebrate – they had won this small portion of –

Sherlock did not see the other tribute until he was right on top of them. He only had enough time just to take a step forward, just to yell “NO!”, and then –

Blood was everywhere, and Archie Neal’s head was on the ground.

* * *

Archie Neal had left the Games the same way his sister had won two years ago: with a beheading.

Louise Neal screamed, falling to the floor, gripping onto John and Mycroft as if they were the only things keeping her attached to the world. She screamed in despair as tears rolled down her cheeks, but John couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen.

* * *

Within a single second, Sherlock was covered in Archie’s blood, and the boy’s body fell to the ground between him and the killer – a man just a touch older than Mycroft in a brown swimsuit. Their eyes met, and before Sherlock had actually thought out a plan of attack he was running straight for the tribute and plunging his sword into his stomach before he had time to react and kill Sherlock too.

The tribute swung his bloodied sword and cut Sherlock – deep in the shoulder. In response, Sherlock twisted the blade – for Louise, he would tell himself – and then pushed the blade through his back.

* * *

“Who knew there’d be a fight like this? William verses William! And it looks like William _Holmes_ is winning!” Caesar exclaimed, and John looked away as the cameras gave the audience the gruesome details.

* * *

Sherlock removed the sword from the tribute’s torso and the tribute gripped his wound with his free hand, taking another swing at Sherlock.

 _Slice the tendons_ , a voice – an emotionless, analytical voice – in Sherlock’s head ordered, and Sherlock raced behind the tribute and –

* * *

 

 _"Oh!_ William Wiggins won’t be going anywhere, now!”

John looked back up at the screen to find Sherlock – terrified of what he had just done. Sherlock raced away, leaving William Wiggins to die, and just like that, within the first twenty minutes of the Hunger Games, Harry Watson and Sherlock Holmes had made their first kills.

“Let’s check on the other tribute from District Twelve, shall we?” Caesar asked, and [the cameras cut to Harry Watson, holding one of her brother’s knives in her hand, slicing locks of her long, red hair. “It looks like Harry Watson’s changing up her look – someone should have told her that her stylist would have cut her hair if she had just asked, am I right?”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pt0sAuTP_RQ)

[But John was proud of her – for making that last act of defiance – letting the world know that she’s not a doll for the Capitol to dress up and make pretty. She didn’t _want_ for them to cut her hair – she wanted to do it herself. It was her way of showing the world they were wrong – that she made it through the Bloodbath. It was a reward for her personal victory.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pt0sAuTP_RQ)

_“I thought for sure you would’ve been Bloodbath meat, like your sister will be.”_

Charles Augustus Magnussen was wrong. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be wrong about who would win the Hunger Games, too. 

* * *

[Sherlock ran through the jungle, his legs definitely now hurting and his sword feeling too heavy in his hands, his eyes glistening with tears.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JjzPrnGA694)

The Games broke that boy – that three-year-old boy who would now always remain three years old – they broke his spirit and then they killed him. And now they were breaking Sherlock’s right before they killed him, too.

But that tiny, analytical voice kept speaking – telling Sherlock where to go – _Find Harry Watson._

Sherlock turned, and suddenly he was face-to-face with a large black creature.


	19. The City Circle

The hovercraft landed, and Louise tried to calm herself down, putting on her “happy face,” as she kept mumbling to Mycroft.

“We have a party to attend, after all,” she went on, trying on her best Capitol accent. “Are you wearing that hat of yours?”

“I was planning on it,” Mycroft replied.

“Good; that hat’s ridiculous.”

John looked up at Mycroft. “Party?” he repeated.

“In – In the City Circle of the Capitol –” Louise began to explain, and Mycroft put his hand on her shoulder and carried on for her.

“There’s a big celebration of the Games in the City Circle of the Capitol; everyone’s invited, but sponsors’ and victors’ attendance is mandatory. It’s basically one big party where we all gather and watch the Games together that lasts for as long as the Games do.”

“It helps us talk to the sponsors – they’re a little drunk, and they have money,” Louise added. “What else are they gonna do but spend it?”

Once they exited the hovercraft, they went to their respective floors and got dressed into Capitol-presentable clothing.

“I picked your clothes out for you,” Mycroft informed John as they rode the elevator up. “I hope you’ll find them suitable.”

“I probably will,” John replied. “You’re better at this than I am.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, straightening up considerably.

“How are you doing?” John asked, after a moment.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Mycroft replied, not taking his eyes away from the space directly in front of him. “Let’s not focus on feelings and just do what we have to do, shall we?”

* * *

Sherlock opened his mouth to scream upon seeing the beast, but he covered his mouth, keeping himself quiet until he calmed down.

It took him a second to realize it was a stag – a huge stag, bigger than any deer he had ever seen back home – as black as the darkest night, its torso covered in a mane of black feathers like a raven. This was definitely a Capitol creation.

“Ravenstag...” Sherlock breathed, without even realizing he was saying it out loud.

The stag stared at Sherlock with eyes that seemed to see inside his soul. It looked majestic and terrifying – if Sherlock was more easily startled into action he might’ve tried to attack the beast. But he hadn’t.

Sherlock didn’t want to approach the Ravenstag – not even to pass by it – he wanted to run in the opposite direction, but something in him told him that this was the way Harry might've been, and so he had to follow.

 _You’re in the Hunger Games now, Sherlock,_ he reminded himself. _The Game is on; time to play._

Sherlock took a cautious step toward the Stag, but it did not move. He took another step, and was then close enough to touch the Ravenstag’s nose. It continued to stare at him, and he continued to stare back.

If it was planning on attacking him, it would’ve by now. Unless it was trying to lull him into a false sense of security, it was not going to attack him.

Sherlock opened his mouth.

“I...I’d like to pass.”

He forced the words out, feeling like a moron for speaking to the animal, but then the Stag moved out of his way.

Amazed, Sherlock nodded to the Ravenstag, and walked slowly past the beast. As soon as he dared, he broke out into a run, racing to try to find Harry, but he stopped again once he heard the rhythm of hooves following him. He spun around, and found the Stag following after him, only stopping once there were about ten feet between them.

Sherlock squinted at the Stag, confused, and turned back around, took a few steps, and turned back around again to find the Stag was following after him.

“Okay...” Sherlock breathed. “Okay.”

He then turned around again, and quickly walked in the direction that had to lead him to Harry – now, save for the sound of the Ravenstag behind him, completely on his own.

* * *

“It looks like Sherlock Holmes has decided to take a passive route with the Nightmare Stag!” Caesar announced.

John stood in front of the television, his arms crossed, chewing the inside of his lip. The Ravenstag was used back in the last Quarter Quell, with Hannibal Lecter Magnussen and Will Graham. They were solitary creatures – two were never seen together – but they liked to stalk the tributes. As long as whoever they had chosen to follow didn’t get too scared or threatened or whichever and try to attack, they wouldn’t either. The only time it didn’t work like this was when one encountered Hannibal near the beginning of their Games: somehow he convinced the creature to go after Will Graham without being provoked, but Will was able to befriend the Stag, and it followed him around for the rest of the Games. That’s when Hannibal realized he wanted to keep Will alive until the final two – he was smart, yet unstable, and that made him interesting.

And, as John knew far too well, the real monsters in the Arena kept whoever they found interesting, just to make the final kill that much more dramatic.

When Sherlock first discovered the Stag that was following him, John’s chest seized up, afraid that Sherlock would try to attack him on instinct and trigger an aggressive response, but luckily he didn’t. And so, Sherlock was able to pass by the Nightmare Stag, and it followed behind him, a good ten feet back.

“Sherlock’s passing through sector eight,” he called to Mycroft, who was still in his room getting dressed.

“And?”

“The Ravenstag’s following him,” John recapped as Mycroft stepped out, wearing a grey suit, a blue sash that matched John’s, and a top hat. “Is that the hat Louise was talking about?”

“It is. She thinks it looks ridiculous,” Mycroft said.

“It kind of does.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t recall asking for your opinion,” Mycroft informed him, and John, despite everything, smiled.

Mycroft attempted a smile back, but his glance at the screen gave him away.

“Let’s get downstairs; we shouldn’t leave Louise alone for too long,” he said, and they boarded the elevator.

“So what are the sashes for?” John asked, gesturing to his own.

“Since everyone’s allowed to join the watch party, sometimes it’s difficult to find each other. The sponsors wear red sashes, and the mentors wear blue. It’s to tell each other apart from the other capitol citizens. As mentors, we also get this to carry around,” Mycroft said, presenting John with a contraption that looked like a remote control, with a touch screen instead of buttons and, when a certain command was made, a red light was activated from the opposite end.

“What is this?” John asked, shining the light on his hand.

“It’s a scanner. Instead of carrying around physical money, Capitol citizens carry these devices that are about the size of an index card with them. If they wish to make a purchase or, in our case, donate to our tributes, they can type an amount onto their cards and we’ll scan the cards. These cards are connected to their bank accounts wirelessly, so as soon as we scan the cards, whatever they donated will be transferred straight into an account for Sherlock or Harry.”

“I’m confused,” John admitted.

“Try not to focus on the logistics; all you need to do is press the button, scan the card, and let the Capitol’s technology do the rest. By the way, I haven’t asked you: how are you doing since the whole Magnussen debacle?”

John looked up at Mycroft, taken aback by how casually he had brought it up – how he could easily just call it a ‘debacle’ – and Mycroft looked down at him.

“Fine,” John replied as smoothly as he could, trying not to sound defensive.

“Are you quite sure?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes. Why?” John asked, now not bothering to hide his need to defend himself, furrowing his brow as he looked up at Mycroft.

“Well, I heard last night didn’t exactly work out, so I assumed –”

“Wait – stop – Sherlock _told_ you?”

“He had asked me where he could find a package of condoms, so –”

“He had _condoms?”_ John asked in disbelief.

“I also provided him with the proper lubricant necessary for –”

“Oh my god –” John cut Mycroft off, completely in shock. The idea of Sherlock Holmes knowing that whatever they were planning on doing the night before required lube seemed unbelievable in itself, let alone the fact that he even knew what a condom _was_ – and suddenly his stomach felt like it had contracted. It made sense –

_“But I wanted to give you something –”_

He wanted to give him a fond memory to look back upon – he had planned on sleeping with John that night since he found out he would be going into the Arena. In fact, he probably had the lube in the nightstand drawer in his room – the condoms in his pocket – the thought in his head – as Caesar conducted their interviews.

“We didn’t exactly get far enough to really figure out how what Charles Augustus did affects me,” John revealed.

“May I ask what happened?”

“Sherlock, he – he started shaking in the middle of it, so we stopped. He seemed so disappointed in himself...”

“But you might’ve done the same if it had gone any further,” Mycroft reminded him. “Sherlock just reacted first.”

“Right,” John nodded, and then he felt tears forming in his eyes. “God, I’m gonna miss him. I just...I don’t even care about the sex thing or the fact that he can be a total asshole or the fact he doesn’t know about Magnussen – I just want to be with him. And I can’t because he’s _dying_.” The tears fell from his eyes, and he quickly wiped them away.

“I know, John. I know.”

* * *

After a while of walking, Sherlock couldn’t hear the Ravenstag behind him anymore. Sherlock turned around, and it was about thirty feet back.

“Are you coming?” he asked quietly, and somehow the Stag was able to hear him – it gave a harsh breath through its nose and shook its head, as if he was shaking something off of his antlers.

Sherlock nodded to himself, turned around, and walked off again.

It was at that point that he, while walking, checked out his Capitol-issued inventory:

There was a sleeve of crackers – a source of grain and sodium; a package of beef jerky, providing protein; an empty canteen (similar to the one John had last year), a small silver medical kit –

Remembering the constant ache in his shoulder for what it was, Sherlock stopped and nearly ripped the case apart, only to find….

Bandaids.

Sherlock searched the case desperately, nearly dumping it out in his efforts, but that was all that the Capitol provided him with.

One hundred bandaids.

Was this some kind of _joke?!_

Sherlock sighed, frustrated. Of course it was a joke – this was the Hunger Games. Having legitimate medical supplies – supplies that might actually _help him_ – was none of their concern.

Whatever, then – this was fine. At least he had medical supplies, at all. One hundred bandaids? He could work with this.

He cleared the fabric of his wetsuit away from the wound and, one at a time, ripped a bandaid open with his teeth and used the sticky adhesive to bring the lower part of his wound up to the other side, bridging the gap between the two sides of the wound. He applied five bandaids this way, pulling and fastening and hoping it worked, being careful not to let the bandaids touch, because if one fell off, then the rest of it would fall apart, too.

When he was done, he surveyed his work. There were no cleaning supplies in the medkit, and the wound wasn't completely closed, so it still looked pretty bad, but it was a bit better, and Sherlock was grateful. Dying of blood loss on the first day wouldn't help Harry.

At the thought of Harry, he started to pack away his things, but then he found one last thing at the bottom of his pack: a small, silver object – one that Sherlock had only seen beyond District Twelve’s fence: a spile.

He had seen them sticking out of trees in the woods with John – the first sign of human activity beyond the fence that they had ever found – and so Sherlock used the spile the only way he had seen it used.

Using the point of Mycroft's sword ( _his_ sword?) he made a weak spot in the bark of the nearest tree, and then pushed the spile the rest of the way through. Almost immediately, water dripped out of the spile, and Sherlock filled up his canteen and removed the spile before finally moving on.

* * *

“What are we looking at?” Mycroft asked Louise once they found her in the crowd of partiers.

“Twelve tributes are alive. Sherlock’s in sector seven, Harry’s in sector six, Julia and Steven are in sector twenty-four, and Magnussen’s with the rest of the Careers in sector eighteen,” Louise replied.

“Sector eighteen’s the tidal wave, isn’t it?” John asked.

“Yeah.”

“I hope he drowns,” he muttered, the thought of Magnussen bringing back the memories John fought to keep away.

“Here, they’ve been passing these out,” Louise said, offering a sheet of paper to each of them. John took the paper and quietly thanked Louise, while Mycroft accepted the paper and glanced it over before politely handing it back to her. “I don’t think Crane realized how complicated these Games’ details were to remember until it was too late.”

John looked at his paper, finding that it was a list of all the sectors the Arena was split up into, and the twist each one held. He quickly read them over, and paused where Harry and Sherlock:

Sector Six: Crows.

Sector Seven: The Traps.

* * *

Despite the bloodbath, the giant wave that knocked him off course, and the death of Archie Neal, Sherlock’s time in the Arena had been pretty uneventful. But that didn’t keep him from keeping his eyes peeled, and it was a good thing he did.

He noticed the nearly-clear line of string seconds before touching it with his foot. Luckily, the plastic it was made of reflected the sun’s light once it was hit at the right angle, if only for a moment. Sherlock took a few steps back, and then cut the string with his sword, and a net rose out of the coating of leaves on the ground and pulled whatever it had caught up into the trees.

If Sherlock hadn’t noticed the string, he would’ve been within the net’s contents. Which wouldn’t be too concerning, considering he had a very sharp sword, but looking at the ropes that the net was made out of, he could tell that the material was so strong that his sword wouldn’t be able to free him. If he was to be caught up there, he’d be forced to either starve to death, or anxiously wait for another tribute to come to finish him off.

He took a step back, assessing his situation.

“Well, then,” he mumbled to himself, and, keeping an eye on where he was stepping, continued on.

He knew that the Arena was bound to get worse than this, but Sherlock didn’t mind staying optimistic for just a little while longer.

This was fine.

He could do this.

* * *

John watched Harry Watson on the large outdoor screen as she waved off large, black crows as they nipped her shoulders and the back of her head and neck in sector six. She had tried to ignore them as best as she could, but her patience was quickly wearing thin.

“Mycroft Holmes!” Dean Bainbridge exclaimed, and John only glanced away for a moment to see Dean clapping Mycroft on the back.

“Dean, hello,” Mycroft replied politely.

“That Bloodbath was intense! Congratulations, by the way – Sherlock’s still in it,” he said, offering Mycroft a glass of wine, and John winced at his enthusiasm.

“Thank you, congratulations to you, as well,” Mycroft replied, merely glancing at the screen as he spoke to check in on Harry – just in time to see her try to take an arrow to one of the crows, but it dodged out of the way.

John looked away, his eyes landing on another blue sash in the crowd, and a matching blue suit – Alexander Waters.

 “Come on,” he muttered to Louise, and together the two made their way through the crowd. Alexander spotted them before they reached him, and smiled sadly as Louise closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“How are you doing?” she asked quietly, kissing his cheek.

“Forget about me; how are you holding up?” he asked.

Louise shook her head in response, and John would be lying if he said he didn’t see tears in her eyes. “I’m still not entirely sure yet.”

“And how are you, John?” he asked, giving him a hug as well, and John shrugged.

“I just feel terrible about – about everything –”

“But, you should be thankful that Harry and Sherlock are alive,” Alexander reminded him, and the guilt made his stomach churn.

“For now,” John said, the words coming out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Don’t think like that – just believe in Sherlock. He’s smart; he’ll get her out of this.”

John turned and looked up to find the large screen switching from the Careers to Sherlock as he walked through the jungle alone.

“I hope so.”

* * *

As Sherlock walked, his mind never stopped, not even for a second, until it landed on the Ravenstag.

It was a beautiful creature – a creature that seemed like an old friend to Sherlock – but why? He had seen one before, he knew he had – but where? Maybe beyond the fence with John? No, that wasn’t right – they had seen stags before, but nothing like this one, surely...

But then he realized: he had seen a Ravenstag only once before, a million years ago, it seemed –

There had been a night, in the penthouse, where Mycroft and John (Mentors through and through) stayed up late into the night watching the last Quarter Quell – Hannibal Lecter Magnussen’s Games. Sherlock had woken up and made a trip to the bathroom while they were discussing how monstrous Hannibal and Charles Augustus were, which sparked Sherlock’s curiosity. The following night, after everyone had fallen asleep, Sherlock went and found the disc (which hadn’t been too hard to find) and he took the disc into his room, and watched the last Quarter Quell. He watched Will Graham die, watched Hannibal Magnussen eat his victims and win the Games –

That’s where he had seen the Ravenstag before, on that disc – the Capitol had sent them to attack a few of the tributes twenty-five years ago.

In fact, now that he thought about it – now that he _really_ thought about it – he had seen a bunch of traps like this before, too. These traps had been in the twenty-sixth Hunger Games –

It was in that moment that it hit Sherlock –

“The Arena’s in sections based on our siblings’ Games – ah!”

And, in a lapse of judgment – in a moment of being too distracted by his own thoughts to pay attention to what was right in front of him – his ankle got caught in a trap, and he was pulled about fifteen feet up into the trees.


End file.
